


You & I Were Made For This (ON HIATUS)

by theprincessed



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-The X Factor Era, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprincessed/pseuds/theprincessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes what's in front of you is not what you should be looking for.</i>
</p><p>Harry Styles is kidnapped whilst One Direction are in Brighton, recording music for their debut album. With a first hand look at the seedy underbelly surrounding his captors, how are Louis, Liam, Zayn, Niall and Harry's family coping in his absence, will Harry ever be found and the biggest question of them all - if they do, what kind of state will they find him?</p><p>A story of unforeseen complications, the strength in friendship and the unbreakable bond of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this literally before they had their first album out lol. I've suffered up and down with masses of writer's block because I so desperately want this to be my best work, the latest being 10 months long ugh. Also I get distracted by one shots and crack ships a lot, heh. But I realised that if I wanted to share this somewhere other than [my livejournal](http://www.beautility.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20you%20and%20i%20were%20made%20for%20this) or [Tumblr](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com) and I was writing a future chapter, I'd have to start posting up to that point. So here it is, my OTP baby full of angst so far. Thanks to everyone over the years whom I've bothered about this. You know who you are. <3 
> 
> Title and a lot of inspiration from Civil Twilight's _Letters From The Sky_. 
> 
> Enjoy and thank you for all the kudos and comments on everything I've posted so far. This is quite a departure from that! I'll probably post a chapter a week until we're all caught up, unless I get too impatient...which is highly likely, to be honest. :)
> 
> CURRENTLY ON HIATUS!!!!!!!/UNLIKELY TO BE FINISHED. Please don't send me entitled, rude messages about this fic. It makes me less likely to finish the damn thing one day. Thanks x

Harry was under strict orders to stay put until Louis came back from checking if the coast was clear. He’s stood next to a slot machine in the amusement arcade and turns to face it, rooting around in his jeans pocket for some spare change. He figures he might as well try and win some money whilst they’re hiding.

They’ve been sent to (not so) sunny Brighton to secretly record some tracks with a local company. Harry’s pretty sure with the invention of Twitter that the “secret” is out already on that one, but hanging out with his boys and starting to make music – their own music – is still amazing to think about. It’s been fun, holed up in a humble abode by the sea, instead of the label giving their right arm for however many nights in a nice hotel. It means he’s been able to reconnect with everyone when they get back to the house after a long day’s singing. He’s had lightsabre battles with Louis (and won every time, thank you – no matter what Louis says), chats under his bed with Liam, wrestled with Zayn and giggled at anything remotely funny with Niall.

Girls have been a noticeable presence too, but of the screaming, crying fan kind. Harry doesn’t mind – although the incessant tears is _really weird_ – except when he has to leg it down the pier on a cold, rainy day because a gaggle of wandering teenagers have spotted him and started to give chase. It was Louis who had shouted to him to run, which was probably stupid in hindsight. If they’d just stopped and let themselves be mobbed then they wouldn’t be hiding now like a group of inept criminals. 

They’d separated quickly upon entering the bright lights and loud noises of one of the arcades, apart from him and Louis. His hood was still up over his head and Louis’ hand was planted on his back, steering him around as they crouched behind machines and games, eyeing the doors at either end of the building and hoping no one pressed to the glass outside would catch sight of them. It’s so noisy and should be an okay temporary cover, but Harry can’t help being prepared for someone else to pop up and recognise them. It’s not that he’s arrogant enough to think it should happen, but being back in the real world has made him realise how big a show like _The X Factor_ truly is and in this business there is such a thing as inevitability. 

His stomach growls as the smell of sugary doughnuts and greasy chips linger in the air, clinging to the clothes of the people they slip past. The five of them had been on the way to get food when the emergency detour happened. He blocks out the thoughts to stop his body from reacting, immersing his mind so deeply in the cheerful sounds and chatter that he barely hears Louis shout that he’s going back to take a look.

So whilst Louis’ gone to scope out the situation, Harry’s left wasting what little money he has on him betting on slot machines. The box makes another annoyingly chirpy sound and he jabs the button with a couple of fingers, his foot tapping impatiently. Suddenly, another tune suddenly starts up nearby and cuts across the terrible music from his. The fruit symbols scroll quickly in a blur as he naturally glances to the side and his gaze falls on a girl using the machine at the end of the row. Harry blinks, a little surprised for a lot of reasons before he can even think of turning on the charm.

He guesses that she’s older than him but only by a few years, probably the same age as Louis. Her hair is honey blonde and short and she looks like she uses fake tan a little too much for it to be natural, but she’s hot nonetheless. Harry pulls his hood down and squares his shoulders, looking back at the slot machine when her eyes drift towards him. There’s nothing coy about it, he’s done this a million times. It’s like breathing, sometimes he doesn’t even realise he’s flirting, but it means nothing so he shrugs and tells himself its okay. Especially if they flirt back.

Harry jabs the button on the slot machine again even though his money has run out, so it looks like he’s doing something whilst he continues to steal glances at the hot girl. She’s average height and slim, almost athletic looking. Her sense of fashion is a lot more girly than her shape, nearly drowned in a long floaty top, cardigan and skinny jeans, but she could be wearing a bin bag for all he cares. Their eyes lock for a second time and when Harry’s mouth curls up at the side, hers knowingly does too. Then she’s shuffling closer until she’s right next to him. She slides a few coins into the slot on this machine and presses the button with a fingernail. Harry quickly looks around to see if Louis’ going to come over and interrupt (he would) then smiles when he sees the girl turn to regard him properly.

“Hi.” she says, one hand casually wedged into her pocket.

Harry’s immediately struck by that fact that she acts so differently from the girls – fans – he usually gets to meet. She seems perfectly confident and at ease with him, not like she’s going to burst into tears at any moment or squeeze the life out of him. 

“Hi.”

He grins wider, suddenly thankful that he’s got no money left so he can lean an arm against the slot machine and appear to have some modicum of cool.

“Are you any good?” she asks, gesturing to the slot machine. 

There’s a slight twang to her voice, but Harry’s never been particularly interested in geography, so it’s hard to place the accent better than Eastern European.

He laughs, caught out, “I just lost all the money I have on me,” he steps an inch closer, intent, “I was distracted.”

The girl seems unfazed by his flirting. “I thought the one I was using was broken, so I moved to try my luck on this one.”

Harry looks around; a thought in the back of his mind saved for Louis because the last thing he needs is to be stranded on his own in an arcade in a town he barely knows. He hopes his bandmate has found an escape route and will come back to tell him, but for now he’s occupied well. Still, when he drops back into their conversation he’s a little absent-minded.

“Yeah?”

“No,” she replies flatly, recognising with a grin that he’s not really listening, “I needed an excuse to come and talk to you.”

He bites his lip guiltily then offers his hand by way of an apology, “I’m Harry,”

“Freya.” she replies, taking his hand too briefly for him to keep hold, “Are you here alone or...?”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “no, I’m with a...” he hesitates for a moment, not wanting her to twig that he’s in a pop group if she doesn’t already care, “friend.”

She makes a show of looking to his left and right then smiles up at him, “Some friend.”

Harry feels the automatic reaction when anybody makes a sleight against Louis well up inside him and wants to correct her, to explain that they’re hiding from screaming fans, but for the first time ever he doesn’t give in to it. Instead, he watches her as she pulls out coins from her pocket and presses a handful into his palm. He stares at the coins then back at her.

“How do you know I won’t just take off?”

She raises an eyebrow, “With £1.50? Well, at least you’re a cheap date.”

She pushes the coins into the slot above her and jabs the button, the machine whirring back into life. Harry laughs beside her, likes that she gives as good as she gets, and copies her movements. They steal smiling glances, dancing around each other, and chat about nothing – she lives in Brighton, doesn’t usually flirt with boys she’s known less than half an hour, wants to do something in fashion – until they’re down to their last coin each. Harry goes to place it but Freya stops him with a hand raised on top of his. She’s standing close, their shoulders almost touching and she’s slightly off balance on tiptoes to reach him, so Harry could easily catch her around the waist and pitch forward to kiss her. God, he wants to, but for some reason she’s making him think too much and suddenly a voice – a _male_ voice – interrupts them.

“Freya?”

Harry stumbles backwards a step and looks past Freya’s shoulder, eyes wide, to see a tall, dark haired man staring blankly at them. He glances back to Freya, wondering how a girl like her knows a guy like him, but her head is bowed and it finally makes sense.

“Freya,” says the man again, although this time it’s very much not a question of curiosity, “Come on, we’re leaving. Now.”

There’s no denying that she’s attractive but the way she’s avoiding Harry’s gaze now makes her seem vulnerable and he doesn’t want to let her go. But he has no choice; it’s either this or face the wrath of the scary, unreadable guy who’s acting like her father (because he probably is). Harry’s got into one too many scrapes like that in his lifetime already, so reluctantly backs down inside his head and tries to catch Freya’s eyes one last time.

“Guess I’ll see you round,” he ventures.

She nods wordlessly and is led away, eyeing Harry from over her shoulder until the man’s grip on her tightens. Harry watches her walk through the far exit then turns and, in frustration, hits the bank of buttons on the slot machines with a fist.

“I leave you alone for five seconds and you start flirting with every hot girl in the place!”

“Hmm,” Harry says in a non-committal response to Louis, barely listening as his gaze lingers on the door. A second or two later, he blinks out of his reverie and shakes his head, “What? No! She came onto me actually.”

“Where is she now then?” Louis asks, looking smug.

“Uh, some guy said they had to go.”

“Sorry mate, I think ‘some guy’ was probably her boyfriend,”

“Nah too old,” Harry frowns, “I think it was her dad.”

Louis whistles low – _don’t go there_ \- then pats him on the shoulder, steering him to face the other way. “Come on, we can’t hide in here any longer. The others are out there, facing the music.”

Harry rolls his eyes, wishing the other three had been as successful as he had at hiding, however brief. He shouldn’t be able to hear himself think as he and Louis push open the doors to the arcade and step into the surrounding group of chattering girls, but his head is still inside, replaying the chemistry he felt with Freya. He’s glad that the girls in front of him are obliviously excited and don’t ask him what’s on his mind. They probably wouldn’t like it if he’d told them anyway.

\---

Later on that day, the boys are in their rented house. After being suitably mobbed once and for all on the pier, they managed to make their way back home and collapse in a heap. Being recognised sure could be exhausting work. Even now, the odd cluster of fans curiously walk past the former guesthouse, uncertain about whether this is the place to find One Direction. Fortunately, no one has had the balls to find out so far but it probably is only a matter of time.

One morning, Liam had glanced out the window and apparently told Zayn that when they eventually moved on it would be for the best. It was a rather jaded view already but he was most likely right.

Having recovered from their hectic afternoon, Zayn ambles into the cosy living room. It’s warm but open plan, the kitchen to the left of him. He can see straight through to where Liam is at the sink, filling the iron up with water. The walls are painted plainly, but it means that the crazy curtains are far more noticeable. They’re terribly floral, a relic from a forgotten time where the house was covered in clashing wallpaper. He flops down into one of the comfortable leather armchairs, those and the widescreen TV it’s sprinkling of modernity. Louis and Harry are taking up the space of the couch, lying at opposite ends with their bare feet touching in the middle. They’re still happily chatting away to each other, even though their knees are in the way of their faces. Niall’s missing, which means he’s talking to Sean somehow or getting in his daily quota of listening to Justin Bieber.

Zayn drums his fingertips on the armrests and sighs. “Hey, we should go out tonight.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at him. Harry seems to know what Louis is thinking because he surprisingly disagrees.

“No, no,” he says, kicking Louis and craning his neck to look at Zayn, “I think it’s a great idea. I’m in.”

“What’re you talking about?!” Louis chuckles, kicking Harry back, “You can’t drink!”

“Fuck off!” he grins, sitting up, “I’m a popstar now!”

Louis reaches out and grabs Harry in a headlock, ruffling his hair as he protests loudly, “Think you’re so smart, don’t you! Alright, get out of this!”

Zayn rolls his eyes as Harry tips forward to get Louis off him but he stubbornly hangs on and they both end up wrestling on the floor, playing as dirty as possible. Amidst the shouts and the giggles, Zayn calls to Liam.

“Fancy going out for a bit tonight?” he peers around the high back of the armchair to see Liam standing in the kitchen, behind the ironing board, “You can even wear what you’re ironing!”

He holds up what he’s just ironed and looks pointedly at Zayn, eyes crinkling in amusement – it’s his boxers.

“Well, more than that, obviously,” he replies, turning back around with a shake of his head. _Liam irons his own boxers, what_. “So that’s sorted then. Boys’ night out. Let the pussy search begin.”

From his flailing position on the carpet, Harry raises an arm in the air, “Hey! That’s my line!”

\---

Niall is predictably easy to convince of their evening’s plans, finding music to play on his phone as he hunts along the floor for something decent to wear. Harry soon leaves him to it and goes to the room next door. With both doors left wide open and the walls so paper thin, he can still hear Bieber from here. It sounds like Zayn has stomped into the hallway and started singing JLS over the top of the music, just to annoy Niall.

Harry can’t shut himself in the bathroom fast enough. Quite literally, as the door resolutely slams in his face. He hears Louis laugh loudly from the other side. He bangs on the door to show his frustration then lets it go, knowing when he’s lost a battle. He’ll get in there eventually, preferably before Liam. Louis may have gotten one over on him, but there’s no stopping Harry doing the same to Liam. All’s fair in love and beauty!

To kill time, Harry starts to choose his clothes and throws them onto his bed. Through his searching, his and Louis’ room looks like it’s in more disarray than before and that’s saying something. The carpet is barely visible and their suitcases still seem to be overflowing with possessions. He didn’t realise how much stuff he had (and how much he actually enjoyed getting more) until he had to pack up most of his life for _The X Factor_ and beyond.

Sat by the window is an old, dressing table that’s seen better days, but it’s still useful. Painted a light blue, the matching little stool has all its legs and the round mirror in the centre of the table, whilst smudged with dirt and dust, is functional. The table itself holds all the items he and Louis need on a daily basis out of their suitcases and bags. Harry eyes the hairdryer, briefly thinking about hiding it, but he’s still got one last clothing choice to make between two shirts and have a shower so he reluctantly lets the thought go.

Knowing there’s no time like the present; Harry holds the last two shirts haphazardly against his body, alternating every few seconds, to try and make a decision and stick to it.

“White,” he hears Liam say in the doorway and almost drops them because they aren’t on hangers and he was in between swap. “You’ll look less like the Grim Reaper in white. Or, y’know, the Mafia,”

Harry turns around and gives him a look. Maybe he wants to look slick and persuasive in all black. Maybe it would impress the girls. Even so, eventually his stare turns into a slowly relenting nod. White shirt, black jeans, sorted. Harmless but casually cool.

“Careful not to look like Jesus too,” grins Louis, brushing past Liam with a towel around his waist and his previous clothes clutched in his arms.

Harry grins back and reaches to tug Louis’ towel until he swerves a knowing kick to the shin. Before Liam can usurp him as well, Harry bundles up everything he needs and races to the bathroom, smiling when Liam groans that it’s the last time he ever helps him out.

\---

Much quicker than say, Zayn, Harry emerges from the shower clean and ready to party. The music from Niall’s room has stopped, which means that he’s probably gone downstairs to wait for the rest of them to finish.

“Don’t you dare touch my new hair straighteners!” he hears Liam say in warning, before he steps out into the hallway and sees Harry looking at him, “Oh. You’re out.”

Harry enters his room as Liam scurries past, restless and harassed. He hates having to rush about. Louis is sat shirtless at the dressing table, drying his hair. From this angle, Harry can see that one of the stubby legs of the stool isn’t in such good shape as it begins to bow outwards. He’d tell Louis if it didn’t sound like he was accidentally calling him fat.

The hairdryer suddenly shuts off. 

“Are you staring at my arse?”

Harry blinks and his surprised gaze meets Louis’ in the mirror. He’s not smiling and that somehow makes it all the more mortifying. Did he seriously think...?

“No,” he looks away and frowns deeply, turning back when he’s thought of a suitable defence over something he wasn’t even doing, “I was just looking at—um—I mean, what _is_ that?” he exclaims, swiftly changing the subject, “You look like a sailor!”

“Yeah, well...” Louis shrugs, not offering more.

Harry sighs, sliding the white shirt around his shoulders and doing up the buttons, “Is this about Hannah? Mate, come on. You’ve got to get over her.”

Louis puts the hairdryer down and actually swivels round to face him, “Huh?”

“Y’know. Make yourself look as ridiculous as possible so you won’t pull tonight and have to move on.”

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous, Hazza,” he laughs, “It’s nautical! Trendy!”

“Yeah, about two years ago,” he retorts mostly under his breath. 

He crosses the room, with his shirt still half undone, just as Louis is about to switch the hairdryer on again. This close, Harry can see that the ends of his hair are still damp and sticking wetly to the back of his neck. He covers Louis’ motionless hand on the hairdryer with his.

“Listen,” he begins softly, going with his instincts because it’s all he’s got to work with, “I love you and you deserve to find someone as amazing as you are. You’re not bad looking; you could easily pull tonight _if_ you look your best,” he takes his hand away and drapes his arms around Louis’ bare shoulders instead, his face reflected in the mirror, “And besides, Zayn would probably kill you if you went out looking like that. Or me for letting you.”

Louis chuckles, reaching up to sink his fingers into the curls at the side of Harry’s head. They smile at each other and stay like that for a few seconds until Niall yells up the stairs.

“Hurry up, guys! You’re worse than all my ex-girlfriends put together!”

\---

Eventually everyone comes from their rooms, the bathroom and the living room to converge in the hallway. Zayn exits the downstairs toilet still fiddling with his hair when he bumps into Niall hovering in the doorway to the living room. He raises his eyebrows and looks Niall up and down.

“Going somewhere?”

In his printed t-shirt and black blazer, Niall puts a shoe out to gently hit Zayn in the ankle. He laughs, ruffling Niall’s hair as he squeezes past.

“You look great, man,” he offers over his shoulder and sees him grin happily.

Next to arrive is Liam. He finally looks more relaxed than he had when fighting for the only shower left in the house. With some of their footwear in a pile by the front door, he rifles through them to find his high tops and smiles at Niall and Zayn as he sits down on the velveteen couch to put them on. Zayn, standing in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece, sends Liam an incredulous look.

“Mate, I swear I’m going to burn them when you’re sleeping,” he says, glancing at Liam’s jeans.

“They’re easy and comfortable!” he protests, still going through a heap of teasing for his overuse of ‘jogger jeans’ “I don’t have to think too much,”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Zayn retorts quickly, busy smudging eyeliner underneath his eyes.

He’ll go through phases with the tiniest amount of kohl now, ever since he pulled a girl weeks ago who said it made his eyes look so amazing. He briefly spots the unfocused blob that is Liam get to his feet.

“Anyway, you can’t talk,” he starts, straightening up so that his chest pushes forward, “you look like you’ve lost a fight with a tiger in those,”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply as Liam quickly leaves the living room to pick up his leather jacket. Zayn shrugs off the apparent insult (Liam doesn’t do insults, he’s too nice, only usurped by Niall) to his grey, artfully distressed jeans with a last twist to his hair. Niall shakes his head at him, failing at not giggling so Zayn grins. He’ll buy Liam a drink later to make it up to him.

Niall looks towards the staircase again as he hears Harry nearby. It sounds like he’s having a half-hearted disagreement with Louis and he soon pops into view with his hands held aloft.

“Okay, I’m going!” he exclaims, coming down the stairs enough to notice Niall at the bottom, “Hey nice one, Nialler,”

“Alright, everyone can stop being nice to me now!” he shouts so hopefully they can all hear him throughout the rooms, “It’s starting to freak me out!”

Still, he grins because Harry’s warm grin is infectious and enjoys the pat on the shoulder as he enters the living room. Harry walks up to Zayn and pushes him in the back probably with the sole aim to annoy him until Louis stops fussing and gets a move on.

“Red and grey, really?” he says in his ear, laughing when he gets shoved away.

“White and black?” Zayn throws the eyeliner pencil at Harry, still careful not to hit his face because he’s not that cruel, “Safe!”

Harry grabs the sleeve of Zayn’s red polo shirt and tugs him away from the mirror, so Zayn takes a step forward once he’s turned around and catches Harry behind his ankle and up to his knee, forcing him onto the carpet. They wrestle there with determined expressions until Harry pulls Zayn’s hair and he retaliates by rolling them over so Harry’s white shirt gets crumpled underneath him.

“OI!” he yells, scowling and slapping Zayn’s cheek, “Hands off! I ironed this!”

“You mean I did,” Liam adds, clad in his leather jacket, as he pops his head around the living room door again.

“Technicality!”

There’s another anguished cry as Zayn pinches Harry’s side hard, making him twitch, before he pounces on him with the killer blow.

“What’s all this yelling?” Niall and Liam turn as Zayn and Harry stop to regard Louis who’s somehow descended the staircase unnoticed and is now stood at its foot. He smiles, puffing his chest out like he’s wearing his Superman t-shirt, “HUSH! I’m here now!”

Sat astride Harry’s back on the floor, Zayn drops Harry’s arm that he was forcing behind him and hurriedly stumbles up. Harry’s having worse luck, seemingly frozen and staring at what he can see of Louis when Niall and Liam in the doorway are partly blocking him. God knows what could be in this carpet after so many years and it’s that unsavoury thought which makes Harry stand, clumsily brushing down his dark trousers with his palms. Louis parts Niall and Liam with his arms, pats Zayn on the cheek then fits his hands in the pockets of his black jeans as he comes to a halt in front of his best friend.

“You changed,” Harry blurts out, blinking.

“Thought I’d make an effort, y’know,” he says, fiddling with the end of the loosened skinny tie attached to his shirt, “Something about me being ‘not bad looking’ and pulling tonight if I look my best.”

They grin at each other stupidly at first, but a second later it seems like they both realise what Louis’ just referred to and there’s suddenly a distinct rosy tint to their faces that makes them look away. They’re broken out of their exchange by Zayn sliding his arm around Louis’ shoulder.

“I think what Harry’s trying to say,” he begins loftily, giving Louis’ tie a short, playful tug, “is that this is much better than that sailor crap,”

Louis raises an eyebrow, “Who died and made you queen of fashion?”

“That was a compliment!” Zayn ignores Harry’s snigger and flicks Louis on the nose instead, “Besides, the shirt brings out the colour in your eyes,”

“Fuck you,” Louis grins, straightening the blue and black checked shirt after he squirms away from his grip. “Go chat up someone who cares,”

“Yes!” Niall exclaims, with a loud clap of his hands, “Come on, let’s go! Car’s already outside.”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another chapter a bit earlier than planned because I'm bored ie. procrastinating on everything else!

On arrival to the club on the seafront, the boys pile out of their people carrier near the back of the queue so that they might be able to get away with not being recognised. It’s not that they don’t want to be already, but that it’s still a little weird for it to happen. Staying here was hopefully a chance to breathe and prepare for the _real_ rollercoaster their lives were about to become.

That’s the reason why, when Zayn tells them to wait; they look at him like he’s crazy.

Liam leans in to his ear, touching his back, “Let’s just get inside. We’ll be completely anonymous with so many people around,”

Zayn rolls his eyes and flips his mobile phone over in his hand, “I’ll tell them to forget the booth I booked then, shall I?”

“Booth?”

Liam sighs as Harry curiously steps forward. Their eyes meet and Liam sees how ecstatic he is. “Fine,” he relents, giving Zayn a little push, “Lead the way.”

“By the time we get to do this again, we’ll be able to queue jump anyway,” Harry says, nudging Liam encouragingly.

“Yeah, for our own safety.” Louis laughs, draping himself over the both of them as they walk past security and into the dark, atmospheric confines of the club.

They head into one of the rooms and are immediately struck with how the lights make everything look many different shades of blue. The ‘Ice House’ feels a bit like being in a trendy igloo without the chilly air. The room is on the cutting edge of contemporary decor, shiny floors and glass tops that the light can simply pass through and the music choices are modern as chart music floods from the speakers to bounce in between all the bodies on the dance floor. All in all, it’s a pretty good start to the evening.

As well as the queue jump, Zayn continues to lead the way to a seating area and slides into one of the booths with a satisfied grin. The booth is relatively high around them, offering some privacy, and the seats are dressed in black faux leather which thankfully isn’t too sticky or uncomfortable to sit on. As they all gather round for a moment, Zayn looks to Liam.

“Okay, okay, you did well,” he agrees, sitting back casually, “Now buy me a drink before I change my mind.”

Zayn salutes and stands up to shouts from the others of what they want to order from the glass bar across the room. He agrees, only if they hand over their own money, and hits the back of Louis’ head on the way past for all their cheekiness because Zayn knows he won’t care about getting the blame. Leading the rest of them astray is usually his fault anyway.

Louis stretches an arm across the back of the booth and Harry sitting next to him.

“I saw that, y’know,” he tells him in a raised voice, leaning over so that they can hear each other through the blazing haze of loud music.

Harry subconsciously sways into the space and tears his eyes away from his surroundings to regard Louis, “What?”

“When we gave our money up, you were still ‘searching’” he gently nudges him in the side, “for yours,”

Louis watches his lips twitch into a smirk and form a grin that he throws over his shoulder, lest any of the boys see him and twig that’s something fishy. He glances back at Louis.

“Can’t get anything past you, can I?”

“Of course not, I’m the master of distraction,” he wiggles his fingers in the air, like a magician ready to do a trick, “Tell you what, buy him one later. He’ll think you’re being a good mate when you’re just paying back what you owe.”

Harry’s about to reply when Zayn comes back to the booth with drinks in hand. 

“Another VIP perk,” he says at Liam’s surprised, curious look that he’s returned so soon. “Although _someone_ doesn’t deserve it,” he adds, as he sets the bottles down carefully in the centre of the table.

Suddenly, he grabs Harry in a headlock and roughly messes up his hair as the other three burst into laughter.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Hazza!” Zayn shouts gleefully, cracking up even more when Harry straightens and he sees his handiwork.

Effortlessly running his hands back through his hair so that it looks like nothing ever happened, Harry grins innocently, “Remember who’s sticking you in that old folks’ home when you’re ninety,”

Zayn smiles, “I’m flattered you think I’m gonna live that long, mate,”

“Hey!” Louis interrupts, lazily aiming a punch to Harry’s thigh, “I’m feeling a little left out here,”

Harry picks up the bottle on the table in front of him and rests his head on Louis’ shoulder, “Sorry, I won’t forget to look after you either,”

Zayn shakes his head as Louis looks at him with an indulgent smile, pleased he’s won over Harry yet again. They clink their bottles together and Louis briefly squeezes him to his side before he lets go. 

Maybe this night out was a good idea, after all.

\---

Eventually, everyone splits up. They’d had a good time together for a while, talking and drinking, then went their separate ways for a change of scenery. They spent almost every waking moment with each other, so to make the most of the night was like letting kids loose in a sweet shop. Niall ran off to the bar, Zayn and Liam grinned at each other then stumbled after him to make sure he didn’t get turned down (or worse, thrown out) if he wanted more to drink. Initially, Louis was somewhat set on mingling. Harry had disappeared early on when they all naturally drifted away and he didn’t have to guess to know what he was up to. He’d nudged Louis in the side, told him something about “getting back on the horse” and was gone.

Louis hoped whenever Harry came to him for advice that he didn’t suck that much. Besides, he wasn’t really looking for encouragement, however nice it was to hear that Harry clearly wanted him to move on and be happy. He can do that. He is a grown up. Sometimes.

Louis is about to pick up his empty bottle and slide out from the booth when he sees Harry a few feet away. Somehow he’d ended up on the dance floor and is pushing through the mass of bodies, but Louis sees he’s not alone. A girl with long red hair staggers out with him, clutching his arm like her life depends on it. Looking at the noisy, writhing crowd, Louis can’t really blame her. 

He’s still turning over in his head whether to go to the bar now or not when the girl leans up, kisses Harry on the cheek then forces her way back into the throng with a smile. Harry glances at the booth he left a while ago and, upon seeing Louis standing in front of it, grins even brighter so Louis stays put and waits. 

“Keeping busy?” he smiles, Harry’s grin infectious when he comes towards him all teenage smug and excited.

“Yeah,” he laughs, surveying the table, “Something like that.”

Louis fiddles with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt and pushes amiably at Harry’s shoulder, “So I made an effort. Are you gonna buy me a drink?”

“Ask Zayn.”

Louis scoffs at the mere idea of it, “There’s no way he’s paying for another round yet,”

He watches Harry as he grabs one of the bottles off the table behind them and fruitlessly shakes it, as if it will miraculously fill with alcohol again. Dissatisfied, he puts the bottle down and shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, gaze returning to the dancefloor. No doubt checking out any girls he hasn’t managed to charm.

“And I should?”

“Yeah!” Louis laughs, nudging him with an elbow. “I don’t think you’ve spent anything since we’ve been here!”

Harry nudges him back, harder, “I’m the youngest!”

“I hope you treat girls who make an effort a lot better than this,” he mock-sighs, half serious.

No matter how together Harry may seem, Louis still wants to look out for him. He did it in the _X Factor_ house and there’s no reason now why he should suddenly stop. In fact, on the brink of something hopefully big, there are probably more reasons than ever for the five of them to support each other.

Harry’s easy smile switches to a smirk, “‘Course I do. There’s something in it for me.” 

Louis knows he’s only joking, being cheeky because he knows he can get away with it when he’s with the lads and then look like butter wouldn’t melt in front of any female company. It’s quite a talent for a boy barely turned seventeen. Then again, Harry’s good at juggling things.

With a sideways glance, Louis watches his best friend’s eyes slowly follow a tall, olive skinned brunette as she stalks past their line of vision. To stop him from drooling, he grabs Harry with an arm around his neck and ruffles his hair. He’s giggling from the second Louis gets a hold of him and almost instantly the confident flirt vanishes and he’s just Louis’ happy, very talented mate.

“Be right back,” Louis says eventually, nodding to the bar as he picks up the cluster of empties so they’ll have more room on the table when he returns.

“Will you get me one as well?”

He stops walking and half turns, “What’s the magic word I taught you, Harry?”

He’s expecting a dramatic huff or a middle finger directed at his face so is surprised when Harry walks towards him, takes hold of his hands as best as he can and looks deep into Louis’ blue eyes.

“ _Please_.”

Louis stares at him for a moment; gaze slightly narrowed, as he lets his pause drag. “Um, nope,” he grins, “And if that was a move, get some new ones because it’s shit.”

And with that, he flounces off with Harry’s laughter ringing in his ears.

But he’s still smiling about it all the way to the bar.

 

Brushing off the rejection, Harry walks back to the booth but, instead of sitting down and looking like billy no mates, he rests his arm casually on the flat top edge of the booth and reverts back to one of the things he does best. He thinks about trying to find the tall girl in the figure-hugging dress from moments ago then gets distracted as he spots a slim girl with short dark hair on the fringes of the dancefloor. She’s still a fair distance away and has her back to him but he’s not complaining. With her sizeable spiky heels, she isn’t as naturally tall as the other girl, although her tanned legs capture his attention as her hips swing to the music and her dress shimmers underneath the flickering coloured lights and lasers.

For one crazy second, Harry’s heart picks up speed as his brain jumps ahead of him and strings everything together. The short hair, the amazing legs, the fashion sense – could it be her here in Brighton too? Could it be... _Frankie_?

He runs a hand through his hair and suddenly feels a little jittery with nerves and excitement. Sure, they briefly met during the _X Factor_ but uncharacteristically he could barely speak two words to her. Maybe now was his chance! Hadn’t she and Dougie split up? Or did they get back together again? Whatever the outcome, Harry decides she has to tell him to his face, so he squares his shoulders and begins to struggle through the masses once more.

However, as he gets closer to her, the doubts start creeping in. She’s not as gorgeously curvy as Frankie and he should know, he’s “looked” at her long enough. No, this oblivious girl is slim, would look almost straight up and down if her hips weren’t clearly moving seductively. Although he’s perhaps a little disappointed that his celebrity crush isn’t here by coincidence, this girl with short dark hair looks like a runner ( _a runner bean_ , his gran would say) and he’s definitely interested so he mentally shrugs and quickens his step until he can slide next to her.

The moment Harry clocks her face, he instantly recognises her and she looks like she might drop the glass she’s holding.

“Oh wow,” he laughs in disbelief, suddenly very happy that she’s not some unattainable popstar.

“Harry?!” Freya stops on the spot and grins, eyes bright, “Oh my god, it’s so nice to see you!”

With her heels, she’s a little more at his level and throws her arms around his neck to greet him with a hug. She seems more like the girl he met initially and he can’t quite quantify how pleased that makes him feel.

“Likewise,” he says, pulling away but keeping a hold of one of her delicate hands, “And you remembered my name! You look incredible.”

He’s telling the truth, giving her a more blatant once over in her long sleeved but short sequinned dress. When she’d hugged him in her backless dress, his palm connected immediately with her warm skin and all thoughts in his head sort of stopped. Her skin is so soft and radiating so much heat, probably because she’s been dancing and enjoying herself, but it’s a stark contrast to the sequins that cover her, a little prickly but nonetheless oh so mesmerising in their shiny blacks, blues and greens. She looks like a mermaid, out on the town until midnight.

“You’re not easy to forget, Harry,” Freya smiles, glancing up from beneath long eyelashes.

She slips her hand out of his and holds the straw in her drink steady as she takes a sip, watching him the whole time. It seems he’s met his match in some departments already. Harry swallows and puts his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t fidget under her scrutiny. Then he remembers what started this whole thing off and gestures towards her.

“I like your hair. It suits you.”

Freya pushes her darkened side fringe out from her eyes and Harry takes a step closer. He’s not going to kiss her yet, even though he wants to. There’s plenty of time for that, especially when her tough father isn’t around to give them (him) grief about coming onto his gorgeous daughter. He looks deep into those eyes, her chin slightly tilted towards him. They’re so blue, the colours of her dress reflecting back and forth. Harry can’t look away and the glint in hers tells him that she doesn’t mind. She starts dancing again and right now he thinks _this is it_ , he can lose himself in the white noise of loud, club music with Freya and no one can tell him not to.

\---

Louis returns to find that most of the boys have made their way to the booth again. For a moment he doesn’t realise Harry is missing and then, with an inward sigh, sets the drinks down on the table. Despite what he’d said, Louis had got one for Harry and killing two birds with one stone had got a refill for the others. He slides into a seat beside Niall as they both reach for a new bottle and take a sip. He’s starting to feel a pleasant buzz now. Maybe it’s Dutch courage for later. Watch out girls.

Thinking about girls, Louis scans the crowd and hopes it’s as easy as Harry makes it out to be. He was in a relationship for a year and a half and although it doesn’t sound like a really, really long time, they knew each other beforehand and she meant a lot to him, still does, so jumping out there feels a little weird. But Harry’s right. Louis has enough respect for himself to know that he deserves to find another to like, love even.

Whilst checking out the girls nearby and with one ear on the conversation between Niall, Liam and Zayn, Louis actually spots Harry. He’s on the dancefloor and yet again he’s not by himself. Some girl with short dark hair in an amazingly striking dress is facing him, her eyes practically never leaving his face. 

Louis taps the neck of his bottle against Niall’s to get his attention.

“Who’s the girl?”

Niall leans towards him and follows his friend’s discreet gesture. He shrugs, “No idea. She’s hot though.”

The girl puts her free hand on Harry’s shoulder as they half move to the music and he reciprocates with his arm appearing around her back, holding her closer.

“Hmm,” Louis replies, blinking out of his thoughts when he realises that’s not enough, “Um, yeah, yeah she is.”

“It looks like he knows her...”

“Nah, that’s just,” Louis shakes his head as he takes a quick drink and searches for the best words, “Harry being _Harry_ ,”

Niall grins, “The Flirt.”

“Harry’s pulled? Where?”

From across the table and obviously noticing where they were staring, Zayn suddenly joins in, interest piqued. He cranes his neck to see. Louis thinks he looks a bit like a meerkat. 

Beside Zayn, Liam sighs. “I’m glad my conversation is so riveting...” Still, he can’t resist checking out what the fuss is about anyway and his face changes when he spots his friend and the girl he’s supposedly pulled. “Oh. Okay, she’s —”

“Hot as hell!” Zayn interrupts, hazel eyes wide.

“Figures she’d end up with someone like our Harry,”

Zayn reaches over and affectionately ruffles Niall’s hair as he stares into his drink, “Mate, we’ll find you someone cute.”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, putting his arm around the blonde next to him, “fancy checking out the ladies by the bar?”

“Ladies? I’m seventeen, not seventy.”

Louis laughs and taps him on the nose, “Best keep that quiet. C’mon! I need my Irish wingman.”

He swallows a couple of mouthfuls of his drink for that Dutch courage, bored with watching Harry flirt, and stands up. 

“Only because I’m Irish...” Niall sighs, as he swipes his bottle from the table and starts walking away with Louis.

Interest on Harry over but warming to the subject, Zayn turns to Liam and smiles. “So, anyone catching your eye?”

“I don’t know, I’m not really —”

Zayn points a finger at him, stopping his awkward reply, “You’re too fuckin’ shy, that’s your problem. Let loose! Maybe then they’ll see what we see.”

Liam’s eyes crinkle up as he smiles, pleased, “You think so?”

“Come on, I know so! Right,” Zayn adds decisively, getting to his feet as he points between them, “we’re doing shots and then you’re definitely going to pull!”

Liam takes off his leather jacket to reveal the dark purple v-neck t-shirt underneath, readying himself. Zayn nods approvingly and moves towards the bar with a grin.

\---

Meanwhile, the music seems to be changing and Harry’s sure he feels even more people around him as more mid-tempo beats and lyrics fill the large expanse of the room. It’s probably a cliché, but it’s not his fault, as Freya leans her back against his chest. Mouth dry, he takes a quick drink from the bottle in his hand, having got one for himself at last when he’s offered to buy another for Freya. He feels guilty for wrangling one out of Louis and then deserting him (Harry knew he’d do it, they’re best mates after all), but can’t seem to grab that for long enough to go and explain.

He can feel Freya’s fingertips on his wrist, toying with his bracelets and it’s sort of distracting him from the way they have to press quite close to avoid collisions with other people or separation. That’s what he tells himself anyway, to keep everything in check.

Maybe sensing his absent worry, Harry sees her raise a palm to the side of his head. She twists a dark curl around her finger, perhaps contemplating sinking her hand into his hair, but then touches his ear and strokes down to his jaw.

“You’re a good dancer.”

Not expecting such a compliment, Harry laughs as he spares a thought for what Brian Friedman would say to that. “Really? I’d love for you to repeat that to someone I know,”

“Who?”

Suddenly, he realises what he’s said and tries not to panic or let his smile freeze awkwardly on his face. He knows it’s probably stupid to think he can keep the reality of, well, his job from her but if he can do that for a little while longer then things can’t get complicated. He’s just an ordinary boy having a good time with a gorgeous girl.

He shakes his head at her, “Never mind, it’s not important.”

Feeling guilty over _her_ now, for rebuffing her attempts to flatter him, Harry slips his arm more securely around Freya’s slim waist and rests his palm flat against her stomach to pull her closer into him. 

She smiles, fingers light on his cheek. “I’m a tiiiiny bit drunk y’know,”

“Is that right?” he leans down as her mouth tilts up, “I might be too.”

As he’s closing the hair’s breadth of an inch between their lips, Harry happens to glance up. It’s probably his new instinct kicking in, checking to see that nobody could exploit this next moment is watching. Then again, what would the papers or anyone say? “Teenager in snog shocker!”? They’re facing the bar and in the very last millisecond, Harry’s gaze finds Louis. He blinks, thrown off balance. Louis and Niall are at the bar, talking to two girls stood directly opposite them. As she laughs, the girl chatting to Louis reaches forward and touches his forearm. _Twice_. The second quick time is an almost squeeze and suddenly alarm bells begin to ring in Harry’s head and, before he’s conscious of it, he frowns.

“Harry?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles to Freya, stepping around her with his eyes still trained on Louis and the girl, “I’ve just got to speak to my mate.”

“What? Harry, wait!”

Her obvious exclamation of confusion snaps him out of his worry and he shuffles back to Freya, sheepish. “It’s okay; I just need to check something out. Promise.” he kisses her on the cheek, “I’ll want a proper kiss when I get back.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me!” she giggles.

With that agreed upon, Harry turns towards the real crisis and strides in the direction of his best friends and the two girls. As he gets nearer, the rainbow lights stop distorting everything in front of him and are replaced with the ice cool lights by the bar. He heads straight to the one flirting with Louis and barely glances at Niall and the girl he’s with, probably a friend of the flirt.

The flirt is blonde and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes as she alternates between smoothing the bright pink tips of her hair between her fingertips and being overly tactile with Louis. Are girls really that transparent or is she just desperate for any scrap of attention? She looks nice enough though, dressed in shorts, braces and a cute blouse in safe, trendy colours, but maybe that’s why Harry feels so uncomfortable and worried. What was that saying? It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch.

He walks right up to them and puts his drink on the bar before he turns around and smiles brightly, as if he’s just noticed they’re there.

“Sorry,” he says, as quickly but as amiably as possible to the girl, “Can I borrow him for a second? Louis? A word, please?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but he can see out of the corner of his determined gaze as they walk a few paces to the side that Louis is confused, so tries not to flinch when he extracts his elbow from Harry’s grip. He can tell Louis is trying to be reasonable and that he didn’t dramatically wrench his arm away. Perhaps he’s a little annoyed at the somewhat rude interruption, but - Harry realises with dawning clarity that makes his stomach fall – Louis must think he has a good enough reason to do it.

Standing in front of him expectantly, Harry stares. It happens in a matter of seconds, milliseconds even, but his eyes catalogue for the first time that night that Louis’ shirtsleeves are rolled up, showing off his toned biceps, he smells really good – weirdly intoxicating - and, because they match the blue check in his shirt, he’s wearing his blue Toms. Harry’s birthday present to him.

He blinks out of his reverie to see Louis smile awkwardly at the girl, like Harry’s being a nuisance. It makes him frown, remembering.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses, tugging one of the sleeves.

Louis frowns now as well, startled at Harry’s petulance, “What d’you mean?”

“Y’know, talking to that girl? I heard you say about the show,”

His face changes into the beginnings of an excited smile, “Harry, she recognised me! She’s really cool about it actually. I was telling her about that time we —”

“Whatever,” he dismisses hotly, already turning to go as he mutters under his breath, “just be careful, alright? Make sure she’s not some tart looking to sell a story on you.”

He doesn’t really know why that particular gambit slips out of his mouth so easily, it’s a cheap shot and they both know it. His feet falter a little, tempted to apologise or at least see Louis’ reaction, but his obstinacy gets the better of him and he carries on going, more than eager to get back to the relative safety of Freya instead.

Indeed, Harry fails to see Louis raise a disbelieving eyebrow - _does she look like a tart to you?_ \- and tells himself he imagines the sigh and the calling of his name. 

Harry slinks up behind Freya and takes her hand high above her head so she can twirl to face him. The fact that she’s still pleased to see him calms him down.

“Everything alright?”

“Perfect.” he replies, wrapping both of his arms around her waist because he never bothered to retrieve his drink from the bar or get a fresh one.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t spend this long on the dancefloor but the thought of bumping into Louis so soon or having the other guys quiz him about where he’s been all this time is a little too much to bear, so he pulls Freya closer and stays put. It’s not that difficult anyway, ‘dancing’ in a club, not when she does the majority of the work. He feels her hips move against his and sees the look in her eyes, like she wishes to eat him alive in the best way possible. 

If Louis wants to get drunk and pick up the _first_ girl that pays him any attention whatsoever then Harry’s not going to protect him from any potential disaster. He supposes he should be grateful that Louis’ taken his advice for once, although it’s not really what Harry had in mind. He has standards. He thought Louis did too.

Suddenly, he’s got no idea why he’s holding back. Harry steps forward so that Freya steps back, until they’re right next to a pillar with a ledge and there’s a white wall behind her. Luckily, she seems to be on the same page, although probably hasn’t just had a disagreement with her best friend.

“I forgot to ask earlier,” he says, reminding himself, “Are you here with friends?”

Freya puts her drink on the ledge and clasps her hand around Harry’s neck, “What do you think? I haven’t left your side.” He’s worried that’s a dig at him and he’s blown it when she adds, with a shake of her head, “no, I was hoping to catch you again. Came to the first decent place I thought of. I wanted to apologise for my dad today. He can be a little—”

“Scary?”

She smiles shrewdly, “ _Overprotective_. I wanted to make it up to you.”

It doesn’t exactly set the mood, talking about the scary father of the girl he fancies, and Harry can’t help looking around nervously. In his peripheral vision, he swears to himself that he’s just seen a silhouette drift by the next pillar, but with no lights other than the blazing strobes and smoke or dry ice near their feet, he’s not sure whether it’s something to be worried about. He guesses he’ll know soon enough if he kisses her. On cue, Freya turns his eyes gently towards to her face again and Harry is more than happy to comply. Without another word, she leans up as he dips his head down and their lips connect. The alcohol in his system seems to catch on fire and go straight to his head, making him fall into the kiss more as his hold around her tightens. Freya’s hand clenches against his scalp in reaction and it’s hard to tell who moves first, her lips opening up under his to accept his tongue as he meets hers. She’s far from submissive and he likes that, maybe a little too much, as she slides her palms down his chest and around to back pockets of his trousers.

If there’s one thing Harry knows, it’s when to stop. During the show, he knew when to stop messing about and return to working hard, so he’s the first to break the kiss. If this really is going where he thinks it is, he should tell her who he is and what he does, especially if they both want her to stick around after tonight.

But it doesn’t happen.

Instead, what comes out when he opens his mouth is, “Would it be stupid to say I think someone’s watching us?”

“Yeah? Well, can’t have that now, can we? You want to get out of here, go back to my place?” Freya asks, as her smile turns sultry and her fingertips lightly tickle the nape of Harry’s neck. “I promise it’ll only be _me_ who’s watching you.”

So used to looking for that little bit of extra guidance, Harry spares a thought for the boys. They’d probably tell him to do it. He’s young, he’s single and who knows, maybe Freya won’t want to be a onetime thing. At least, for a while, it’d put the brakes on the apparent (untrue) reputation he has in the press. Hot young thing with a girlfriend. He could be left alone like Louis was.

Harry nods his assent.

“Okay, I’ll grab my coat.” Freya tells him and then goes to walk off, but Harry catches her wrist.

“I’ll come with you.” he says quickly.

“Don’t you want to tell your friends where you’re going?”

He thinks about it for one more second then impulsively darts forward to give her a quick kiss, “No, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

Harry doesn’t look back.

\---

Louis thought he was ready for this.

How difficult can it be to flirt, pull and take or go home with a pretty girl? It’s not like he’s inept at flirting either, although his brand is probably less shamelessly persuasive than Harry. He prefers to hook with humour, a smile, a well placed compliment.

So clearly he’s not ready because, whilst he’s been happily chatting away, he realises it’s just that – _a chat_. It’s not a prelude to anything, can’t even claim it to be charming sincerity (Liam), intellectual foreplay (Zayn) or infectious friendliness (Niall).

Thinking of his Irish wingman, Louis apologises to the girl in front of him whose name he’s guiltily forgotten and looks behind for Niall. Blue eyes catch his as Niall’s mid-laugh and his expression softens. He inclines his blonde head – _out?_ \- and Louis nods minutely and turns to get out of his conversation.

“Hey, um —”

“Ruby,” she supplies quickly and Louis blinks, not used to being let off so easily.

Man, she must really fancy him, which is why he tries not to think how expectations of her name are somewhat ironic with her hair being blonde and _pink_ at the ends, not red.

“Ruby,” he repeats, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans and swaying back on his feet slightly, “listen, I’ve got to go.”

He tries not to let the wince show across his face as he hears himself speak. At least he’s not telling her lies.

“Oh. Okay.”

“It was nice to meet you though,” he offers, extracting his hand briefly to give a little wave and then slowly turning on his heels to leave.

Niall moves away from the bar at the same time as Louis walks past him and they fall into step together, glad that the route back to the booth is relatively clear of people.

“What’s up?” the blonde ventures once they’re definitely out of earshot of the girls, “Didn’t do anything for you? You were talking for _ages_.”

“It’s not that, I just—”

“Need another pep talk from Harry?”

Louis glances sideways, sees Niall’s grin and sighs, “I thought I could do this tonight. I can’t believe he talked me into this and then ditched me.”

“We _were_ coming out anyway,”

“I know!” he nods, somewhat agreeing with Niall’s point, “But he told me to make an effort; he convinced me that I needed a kick up the arse instead of just coming out and getting pissed, enjoying being with my mates.”

Niall shrugs, changing the subject, “Well, did you get her number? She’s cute; maybe you could call her some other time.”

Bless him for trying, always optimistic, but Louis shakes his head and can’t help the disinterest showing on his face.

Niall throws his arm around him, “Her loss.”

“What about you? Any numbers? Sorry I pretty much cockblocked you with that last one, you looked well in there,”

“I think you did me a favour actually,” Louis watches as he fishes around the inside pocket of his blazer and brandishes a beer mat with a grin, “I’m a man of mystery! Now she’s _really_ interested.”

Louis laughs and they high five just as they get to the booth. He sees Niall’s eyes widen and looks as Liam is sat, or rather slumped, on the edge of the seating with Zayn crouched down in front of him. Louis thinks of what possible angst could’ve befallen him now but then squints and realises Liam’s face isn’t sad, it’s positively _dazed_.

“What the hell happened to him?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow at Zayn.

“Can’t hold his drink!”

He nudges Niall for his interruption, “Don’t look so smug. You’re Irish, it’s like a rule that you can or something.”

“Nah, its instinct, mate. Born with it.”

“ _I think_ ,” Zayn cuts across them with his answer to Louis’ question as he looks up at his friends, “we might’ve overdone it on the shots.”

“‘We’ as in just Liam?”

Zayn half nods, half shrugs at Louis’ amusement, “But everything’s fine. I’m looking out for him.”

He hesitantly taps Liam’s cheek and scrambles back up to his feet when Liam blinks furiously at him and his head lolls to the side of its own heavy accord.

“Uh-oh,” Louis says from behind him, “He’s going to have a monster hangover tomorrow. We’re supposed to be doing more recording!”

At that, Zayn throws him a sharp look, “Yeah? Well, where’s Harry? I haven’t seen him in hours.”

“You know Harry,” he shrugs, non-committal.

“I do,” Zayn agrees, putting Liam’s limp arm around his shoulder and lifting him to stand, “He’s probably charming the knickers off another – no, _several_ – girls as we speak. Look, I better take Liam home. You coming?”

Louis looks over his shoulder at the dancefloor. He’s not expecting to see Harry so easily this time, as the place fills with a crowd hell-bent on making the most of their last hour of feverish dancing and company. He notices the pillars at the far end of the room and how dark the corners are and suppresses a sigh. He hopes Harry’s got more class than that, otherwise he’s duty bound as the best friend and the oldest of the group to have a word. He shudders, the thought of coming over all seriously adult and _responsible_ terrifying him as much as it probably would the boys.

“Louis!” he looks away from the dancefloor and sees that Zayn has already started to leave with Niall helping him on the other side of Liam. “Are you just gonna stand there or...?”

He thinks about how he and Harry have _never_ had an argument. They’ve bickered, sure, but it’s over and forgotten in five minutes. They’ve never walked away from each other with unfinished business; they’ve always been able to talk, even if they disagree. Deep down, he knows that Harry was just looking out for him but he didn’t have to be so crude, implying that Louis didn’t have a clue. That was probably what hurt more. Still, there’s a feeling inside him that tells him not to leave it like it is. He won’t make this a precedent for the future. This stops now.

“I don’t know, maybe I should stick around for a bit, find Harry...”

Niall makes sure Zayn is steady with Liam and walks towards Louis. “Mate, have you seen him in the last hour?” Louis silently shakes his head, a reluctant lie to save face. “He’s definitely pulled. Are you telling me you wouldn’t take advantage of that if it happened to you?”

 _It nearly did if I let it_ , he thinks but smiles at Niall in false agreement, “You’re right. Come on, Amy Winehouse over there needs us.”

Niall laughs as they catch up with Zayn. He’s still trying to keep Liam standing and awake and Louis takes over from Niall as the extra crutch under Liam’s other arm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Why did you let him drink this much? Wait, he’s not actually depressed, is he?”

Zayn looks uneasy and for a moment Louis prays he’s not going to confirm. That’s all he’d need, one wild best friend and one depressed. Way to cover the whole social spectrum and make sure the group implodes!

“No,” he says, thankfully, “I might’ve told him to loosen up a bit, that’s all. It’s what he’s got to do if he wants girls to think he’s worth it,”

Louis shakes his head, fighting his smile, “You’re unbelievable. That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard and he _trusts_ you!” 

Zayn grins, “Alright. Liam shouldn’t drink before chatting up the girlies. Got it.”

With Niall’s help to clear a path free from jostling people, they manage to get Liam out of the club. The cold night air hits them all like a slap to the face and Liam blinks out of his stupor enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Perhaps to teasingly punish him, Louis suggests the idea of getting chips on the way back to the guesthouse. As they happily walk and eat the greasiest chips known to mankind, he and Niall giggle and glance back every five minutes to see Zayn still behind them, struggling with his drunken best friend. After Niall’s finished his portion, Louis mischievously shrugs and hands over Zayn’s share as well.

Usually he’d turn to Harry and they’d fall against each other in amusement at Zayn’s outrage, but Harry’s not here and suddenly Louis’ laughing too much to care.


	3. Three

Freya leaves Harry waiting outside for her as she goes to retrieve her coat from the cloakroom. He stands near the entrance with his hands in his pockets, feeling a little chilly as the night settles in. When he shivers, he immediately squares his shoulders just in case Freya chooses that moment to come back and sees him acting like a wimp. Wimps don’t get cold, he thinks in determination. His thoughts suddenly lead him to Louis and for a moment he smiles when he remembers all the times Louis probably should’ve worn a coat in the dead of winter and didn’t. Harry asked him why once, but Louis had got this enigmatic look on his face.

“Magic.” he’d whispered, winking.

However, the moment soon passes and Harry’s smile fades with it. He looks at the club entrance again, telling himself he’s checking to see if Freya’s returned from the scrum that’s no doubt taking place inside. It’s pushing one o’clock in the morning and people are everywhere, spilling out of pubs and into the nearest clubs for a last shot at pulling or simple friendly enjoyment. Harry glances at his watch, taps a foot against the pavement then turns and walks into the club again before he can convince himself to do otherwise. He gets halfway to the cloakroom and then really must switch off because he seems like all he does is blink and he’s suddenly in the Ice House. He tries to spot the boys as surely he would’ve seen them if they’d left soon after he had, but it feels like the whole room is heaving with even more clubbers and the atmosphere is rowdy, jostling him about physically and mentally.

Harry finally sees a cleared space and dives for it, but his breath of relief turns into a gasp when he accidentally trips. He puts his hands out on the back of the nearest booth to stop himself crashing to the slightly sticky floor, glancing up reflexively to see if anyone saw his stumble. He’s not expecting his eyes to meet Louis’. When they do, Harry has to swallow his surprise. He sees his best friend still standing by the bar. With a hand in a blonde girl’s hair, he’s kissing her but with his eyes open, staring _straight at Harry_. Suddenly, Harry feels like he can’t breathe or look away as his vision narrows to just Louis’ blue eyes, watching him unflinchingly. Their kiss breaks but they’re both unfazed as the girl attaches her lips to Louis’ neck. He moves to give her better access and Harry’s mouth drops open at the shamelessness going on in front of him. A part of him tells him to focus on the girl at least. She presses her mouth to _Louis_ ’ skin, gets a hold of _Louis_ ’ shirt and tugs outwards, exposing his chest as buttons fly everywhere. Harry sees the way _Louis_ looks at her, like he _can’t wait_ to return the favour.

_“Just be careful, alright? Make sure she’s not some tart looking to sell a story on you.”_

“NO!” Harry cries, finally finding his voice.

Suddenly, Harry opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing and sits bolt upright, panting for breath. He gazes around wildly, not recognising the eggshell coloured walls or the alien feel of the bed he’s sat in. He feels cold and wraps his arms around himself, touching bare skin. Only then does reality fully set in. How last night he actually went with Freya to get her coat, how they came back to her place – here, this _bedroom_ – and how an enjoyable night was had by all. She was perfect.

Guilty that his first thought wasn’t to look for her next to him, Harry glances to the other side of the double bed anyway but isn’t that surprised when he finds the space empty. The white sheets are rumpled from last night but touching where she slept feels cold, so she’s probably been awake for a while.

Harry presses his palms into his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, trying to wake up too. He quickly lets go of the dream that awoke him so rudely and his worries about Louis, because clearly that’s what his subconscious was referring to, and stretches fully. It seems it’s rather early in the morning with the light barely playing across the shut curtains and he still feels sleepy, but not enough to fall into slumber again alone. Besides, he should probably put some clothes on and see where Freya’s got to. Just because he can’t hear or smell cooking, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

The thought of a pretty girl like her _and_ food makes his stomach rumble and Harry crawls out of Freya’s bed a little giddily. He pulls his boxers and trousers on quickly, thankful that he or Freya dropped them nearby. Thinking over who it was exactly makes his head hurt and he chuckles to himself about how Zayn would probably make some smartarse quip about that, but right now he knows it’s a hangover. He didn’t get drunk as such, so the headache simply tickles the edges of his mind until he can get to the kitchen.

Plucking his shirt from where it’s draped across the lamp sat on the chest of drawers, Harry slides it around his shoulders with a smile that he can’t seem to help. His grin widens when he comes to stand opposite the door of what must be the en suite bathroom. He can’t hear anything in there either, but goes over to check by pushing the door open.

“Freya?”

When there’s clearly no sign of her, Harry moves towards the bedroom doorway. For a moment, he also stops there. He vaguely remembers that her flat isn’t that big, so she should be able to hear him from here if she’s in the kitchen.

“Freya?” he calls again, distantly realising that he still can’t hear a single sound coming from anywhere.

Harry senses movement behind him and is about to turn his head to see for sure when a hand clamps over his mouth as he’s forcefully grabbed from behind. He begins to struggle immediately and makes as much noise as he can, even though the hand tightens in warning and his shoulders protest from the wrench. Suddenly, more people – men – seem to come out of nowhere and crowd around, trying to catch his flailing limbs.

He can’t make sense of any of it, too caught up trying to escape to worry about who these hefty men are, how they got in and where Freya is but the thought of her makes him shout again. All that comes out is a panicked, muffled jumble that sounds like nothing. In a last ditch attempt, he bites the hand as hard as he’s ever bitten anything in his life and feels triumph zing through him as the person – another man – holding him yells in pain and takes his hand away. Harry’s moving his elbow to aim a jab at the guy’s stomach when muscled arms close firmly around his torso and lift him off the ground. He tries to carry him down the hallway, but Harry kicks out his bare feet as a second man directly steps in front of him.

“Fuck off!” he roars, wriggling profusely as he digs his fingers into the guy’s arms hard enough to leave marks, “Put me down, you fucking freak!”

“Oh that’s cute,” the man in front of him actually _smiles_.

It’s then that Harry gets a better look at him and realises in horror that he’s from the amusement arcade. It’s _Freya’s father_. Harry hears himself growl, kick and push his foot out hard once again. He catches him on the lip, making it split and bleed from impact. In reaction, Freya’s father surges forward without hesitation, pulls the open lapels of Harry’s shirt together to grip him easier and slams his fist straight into Harry’s face. This time, his cry of _pain_ isn’t muffled.

Dazed and feeling the warm flow of blood gush out of his punched nose, he sees her father click his fingers impatiently. Another of the gang passes something over to him as silently ordered. Harry twitches in the first guy’s arms, but the fight is quickly draining out of him, so he can only watch with bleary eyes as he feels something sharp prick the skin of his neck.

He winces, “Ow, _Jesus_. What the...”

But for some reason he can’t seem to find the energy to finish his sentence. He glances up through the hair falling into his eyes and sees Freya’s father looking smug. Growing sunlight glints off the sharp object he’s still holding for Harry to see – a needle.

“You...” he sucks in a breath as the room starts to spin and spares a thought for the boys back at the guesthouse and Freya, _where is she_ , “you...bastard,”

He valiantly makes noise as he’s gagged with a dirty rag stretched tight across his mouth, but his tongue feels heavy and the world, not just his words, feels increasingly slow. He can barely fight off the hands as his own are bound with rope behind his back and his ankles are tied together. As he lies on the floor, he tries to magically blink out of whatever drug he’s been shot up with. Determined not to cry tears of helplessness, he makes sure to use his last moments of consciousness staring right at Freya’s father and, as his eyes close almost at the same time as dark material is shoved over his head, Harry vows to kill him.

\---

Louis carelessly slams the door to the guesthouse behind him as he returns from the local shop down the road. It was still fairly early in the morning but he couldn’t resist the mischief of waking Liam up, especially since he was usually one of the first of the group to be awake and trying to hurry the others along. He glances up at the staircase, ready to run back outside if Liam decides to come downstairs and give him what for.

He’d been coerced into going to the shop in the first place, after Zayn moaned at him that they’d already run out of bread and milk.

Cheekily eating cereal with the last of the milk, Louis had shrugged. “Get off your arse and go to the shop then,”

Zayn slid on his knees and stopped at where Louis was sat on the sofa. At his sudden appearance, Louis blinked.

“I’m not dressed,” Zayn stated the obvious with a brief widening of his arms to indicate his boxers. He clasped his hands together then rested them on one of Louis’ legs. “Will you go for me instead? I’m gonna get enough grief off Liam when he wakes up.”

Louis smirked, “This must be a first, you on your knees for me.”

“I’m begging! I know it works, my sisters do it all the time!”

“Alright, alright,” Louis laughed, finishing his last spoonful of cereal as he stood, “I’ve got your back with that one. But you owe me.”

He flicked Zayn in the forehead with a smile, slipped on his Toms and walked to the nearest shop like a good friend. Louis was vaguely aware of a trio of girls in their school uniforms behind him on the way there, but hearing their giggles and quiet chatter was as far as it went. He was pretty glad – he’d roughly shoved the first beanie within reach over his hair, was almost certain he was wearing his t-shirt inside out and probably looked as tired as he still felt.

“Was that you slamming the door?” Zayn asks now, as Louis steps into the kitchen with a bag full of clearly more than bread and milk.

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, “Who else would it be?”

As he puts the bag on the kitchen island, he ignores the fact that in the time it took for him to go to the shop and come back, Zayn has decided to get dressed after all. Louis has a sneaky suspicion that it was a total con from the beginning. He looks up from pulling everything out of the bag when Zayn doesn’t answer. He sees him shrug and lean against the kitchen counter.

“I dunno. Harry? Y’know, the walk of shame...”

Louis piles as many items as he can into his arms and turns, dropping them on the counter and leaving them there because he’s not their little housewife. He laughs, “It can’t be a walk of shame, if you’ve got _no_ shame in the first place,” then he realises what Zayn’s said and stops, “Wait. You mean Harry’s not back yet?”

He frowns when Zayn shakes his head, casual. Louis walks into the adjoining living area and waves his hand in front of the TV to get Niall’s attention. He’s sat in the armchair, legs over the armrest and clutching the matching green cushion. His blonde hair is sticking up at all angles and his blue eyes still look like sleepy slits.

“Have you seen Harry?”

As Niall blinks blearily up at him, Zayn cuts across any kind of verbal response, “What’s this now? You don’t trust me?”

“Not after you forced me to go the shop, no,” Louis grins at him, ruffling Niall’s hair in thanks then walking out into the hallway.

“A tenner says you bump into Liam!” Zayn calls when he leaves.

Louis climbs the stairs two at a time, not being as quiet as Liam would appreciate. He pushes open the door to his and Harry’s room, sees his unmade bed then looks over to the other bed. It’s not been slept in. Harry’s _never_ done this. No matter how late (or technically early) it is, he always comes back to the boys.

Trying not to worry too much just yet, Louis turns and literally bumps into Liam as he’s on his way to the bathroom. “Oh. Hey. Sorry.”

“Was that you slamming doors and acting like an elephant?”

“No,” he says immediately, like a reflex, “It was Niall.”

He knows Liam doesn’t believe him or his sweet innocent smile for one second, something that’s Harry’s speciality which Louis soon stole for his own ends. The brunette grunts and scratches a hand through his hair as he walks past. Louis breathes out when the door clicks shut.

“Well? Did you wake the sleeping giant?” Zayn sniggers from his new position on the sofa as Louis comes into the living room again.

“I did, but I blamed Niall.”

As Louis is about to walk into the kitchen, Niall gives him the finger from the armchair to the sound of more of Zayn’s laughter. Louis grins, takes a detour and grabs Niall’s hand to sloppily kiss his fingers. He quickly snatches it back, eyes widening when Louis steps to the side with his own hands menacingly outstretched.

“Come on,” he says smoothly, “You know you’re my favourite really,”

Louis tugs on Niall’s t-shirt and pulls him down as he falls onto the carpet on purpose and starts tickling the blonde until he’s breathless with giggles and red in the face.

“What’s all this shouting?”

Louis stops moving his fingers over Niall on top of him and they both turn their heads to look at Liam. He looks the same as when Louis bumped into him upstairs. He could’ve at least put some clothes on, parading around in his underwear like he’s a cold Harry. Louis goes to wolf whistle because he knows it’ll irritate or embarrass him, but Niall saves the day and clamps his hand over his mouth before he can. Undeterred, Louis gently bites Niall’s palm.

“It’s not shouting, it’s _laughing_. You should try it sometime.” he grins, before his mouth drops open as Niall pinches him hard in the side.

“Oh ha ha,” Liam deadpans, “Please stop before my sides split.”

He disappears into the kitchen for a second then comes back to the sofa. He slides into the seat beside Zayn, after Niall shook his head at him taking the armchair, presses two tablets out of the pack onto his palm and downs a glass of water in three, long swallows.

Zayn touches Liam’s shoulder, “How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit, thanks to you and your terrible advice.”

“I said I was sorry,” he bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, “but you were probably too drunk to remember.”

“Screw you!” Liam laughs and gives Zayn a playful shove, never able to stay truly mad at anyone for silly inconveniences, “I have to sing later on!” Remembering, he looks at the three of his friends in the room, “Where’s Harry?”

Louis yelps as Niall jabs him in his other side, “Not back yet,” he pants, grabbing Niall’s wrists so he can look at his watch to check the time.

“What? Why not?” Liam asks, eyes shocked, “Is he okay?”

Zayn squeezes his shoulder and sits into the sofa, arms stretched out across the back of it, “Relax, man. I’d guess he’s still having a _really_ good time at that hot girl’s place.”

“Still,” Liam says, standing up, “He should text or something, to let us know he’s okay. This, here, isn’t supposed to be a holiday, it’s _work_.”

“Liam! Stop worrying! He’ll be back!”

As he watches Liam leave to get dressed, Louis can’t help admitting to himself that he agrees with him and not Zayn. _Scary_.

\---

“Shit.” Louis looks at his watch and then out the window again, “He’s not back.”

_**WHERE R** _

Zayn comes up behind him as he’s texting, “You’re starting to sound like Liam,”

The surprising close proximity makes Louis jump, startled, and he quickly deletes his half typed message to Harry. He pockets his phone and turns, folding his arms.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, “He’s finally getting the pussy he wants, leave him be.”

Louis groans as Zayn laughs at his expression, “Gross.”

“The girlies love it! You should try _that_ sometime.”

Hearing his earlier words to Liam being used against him and Zayn nudge him with his elbow, Louis sighs, but he’s saved by Niall and Liam gathering in the living room again. Louis glances at them and sees that they’re dressed from head to foot and ready to do a good day’s work. It makes him realise that it’s been an hour since they were all here last, him messing around with Niall, Liam and his hangover, Zayn acting as nonchalant as ever. No Harry.

“Any sign?” Liam smiles, but Louis spots the tension around his mouth and knows it’s not as genuine as usual.

He shakes his head silently and looks out into the residential area once more, at the few cars still left on the street. _Come on, Harry_ , he urges to himself, _where are you?_

\---

When Harry eventually comes to, he knows it’s the rudest wakeup call he’s ever had. One minute he’s sleeping in Freya’s bed, the next he’s dripping wet, has a splitting headache and his wrists ache like never before. At first, he struggles to blink his eyes open, even though someone just threw what felt like a gallon of water all over him. As the fog in his mind starts to clear, he remembers what’s been done to him, how he was injected with something probably illegal which knocked him clean out and led to him being here.

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine, princess,” he hears a light voice chirp from somewhere in front of him.

Harry tries to, he really does, but apparently he’s not quick enough and he gasps through the gag still parting his mouth as more water is thrown straight at his face, until the bottle is empty and the plastic clatters to the concrete. The liquid softens the congealed mess of blood caked around his nostrils and lips and it starts to sting rather than be a dull throb he can stubbornly ignore. He feels like he’s on fire, like his blood is literally starting to boil, and can’t work out whether it’s a physical reaction to his injuries or pure hate.

He tries to properly lift his heavy head as his neck burns and carries the feeling all the way down his back and through his arms, which he belatedly understands are still tied but now to the post behind him. He’s sat on the ground with his legs out in front and free. It’s cold and the wet seeps through his trousers, but Harry wriggles his bare toes (he really wishes he’d put _all_ his clothes on before leaving the bedroom) just because he can and it feels like victory.

When he finally manages to look somewhere in the region of a face instead of the knees, Harry sees that same smug look from before and sets his eyes into a glare he feels to the bottom of his soul. Freya’s father is undeniably not as thuggish as his muscle men but, as Harry’s already found out to his cost, he’s got his own weapons that somehow seem more dangerous, the quieter he goes about his business. He’s smart too - in a flashy, try hard sort of way – dressed in dark trousers, a light blue shirt and a fairly long leather jacket. His hair is dark and neat and he’s got Freya’s eyes, but on him they are cold and look through Harry like he’s barely anything to bother with. Harry wishes he’d realise that soon and just let him go. The most annoying thing right now is the fact that he looks like the kind of man Harry wouldn’t mind turning into when he’s older. Strong and in control, with an air of playfulness. However, Harry hopes he’s nowhere near this arrogant and insufferable and, oh yeah, _psychotic_. 

With Freya’s father staring at him in what looks like amusement but not moving, Harry takes a proper look around at his surroundings. He’s already felt the hard ground underneath his legs and against his rope-bound wrists and when his eyes flicker left and right he just sees more of it. It seems to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind, the place vast and beginning to decay from disuse. Scaffolding appears to be holding up parts in the distance, wood beams perilously hanging down from the roof that’s covered in corrugated iron. Old wires run along the edges of the large, echoing space and Harry eyes them warily, reminded of his drenched state and unable to stop his brain from turning the worst case scenario over in his head. There’s quite a few of them and he shifts in subconscious reaction.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be going anywhere.” her father says in that same deceptively light tone, “We’re far too high up.”

Predictably, Harry turns his head sharply to the side and makes a noise around the gag that everyone in the room knows is a whimper. They’re on the second floor - which is why he can see the roof when he glances up - and he’s tied to the last concrete pillar at one end of the building because behind him the room ends abruptly, dropping down into even more mess and chaos below. It’s as if something catastrophic has hit and gouged out a hole in the middle of the ground level, like a well placed crater. Effectively, the pillar he’s tied to is all that stands between him and the long journey down. It’s the kind of place nobody would think to look inside. Harry’s far from a city boy, but the quiet is already starting to get on his helpless nerves. He can’t hear a single car or even a tweeting bird.

“By the way,” Freya’s father begins as he leisurely paces back and forth in front of him, “While you were still getting your beauty sleep, Freya and I had a nice little chat...”

At the mention of her name, Harry’s gaze snaps back to him. Her father turns his head to look at him and smiles at the glare on his face, at the anger radiating from him. Provoked, Harry viciously tugs on his binds but it only serves to burn the skin of his wrists and he gives up after barely a few seconds.

Still smiling, her father changes his direction and comes towards him. He stands with his feet spread either side of Harry’s closed legs. He feels like a child again, looking up at adults, and it only infuriates him more. Before he can stop himself, he’s trying to talk through the gag but obviously he makes no sense whatsoever.

“What’s that?” her father asks, touching his ear, “I can’t hear you!” he laughs when Harry ceases to make his futile noises. “Oh sorry, I forgot about that.”

Harry’s frown deepens when he bends down and eases the gag down so it’s resting under his lower lip and he can actually talk. He waits a beat before taking advantage, realising early on not to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it’s going to get him some answers.

“Where is she?” he orders hoarsely, looking up once more as her father returns to standing over his prone form, “Where have you taken Freya?” he has to suck in a breath to collect himself, the urge to hit out again becoming strong, “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” her father interrupts, “Hm? I hardly think you’re in a position to do much of anything, Harry. May I call you Harry? No, no, no, silly boy. I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. She’s too useful, the greedy little _slut_.”

His eyes alight as he grins and Harry growls, lifting a leg to strike him where it hurts. However, her father’s reflexes are lightning-quick and he grabs Harry’s foot, squeezing his bare toes in a tight grip. Harry yells loudly then for a second time when he twists a little, an added warning to make him stop and rethink his very careless actions.

Her father lets go and bends to replace the gag as Harry blinks away frustrated, humiliated tears. A few escape down his cheeks and slide near his nose as he jerks from a hand patronisingly ruffling his drying hair. Salt sinks into the bloodied, bruised area but a couple of punches to the face are like nothing after the feeling of being violated crawls across him. He’s come to equate a hand in his curls with being around the boys, Louis mostly, and now that’s gone, memories ruined.

Harry is only aware that his captor has left his cronies in charge again when footsteps fade through where the door had once been and is now just a frame. Exhausted and hurt, he closes his eyes and hopes that when he dares to open them he’ll be somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LiveJournal](http://beautility.livejournal.com) | [Tumblr](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who's sent me messages/kudos etc. You inspire me to try and carry on with this.

“Louis!” he hears someone bark his name in an exaggerated accent, “Louis, get out of the car, you big fat liar!” 

“I’m up, I’m up,” he mumbles, blearily opening his eyes and falling out of the car, “must have dozed off.”

“S’all that worrying. Makes you tired. Doesn’t it, Liam?” Zayn ruffles Louis’ hair and looks over his shoulder at Liam as he and Niall follow them into the building.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it does.”

Zayn smiles a silent “told you so” and misses Liam’s fond shake of the head, but he probably knew he’d do it anyway. Louis and Harry aren’t the only ones with crazy levels of intuition between them.

After much dawdling in the guesthouse over Harry, Louis had rung Phil, their manager, and told him that Harry wasn’t going to be with them today. He was ill, he said, probably coming down with a cold. In the car, he kept checking for the other boys’ eyes on him as he spoke but they were either looking out of the window or dozing. Maybe they were still too tired to be on full alert. Louis knew they cared, especially a worrier like Liam, but he was a little relieved that no one was paying too much attention to him actually lying through his teeth. It was lucky really that Phil was needed back in London for something and thus couldn’t escort them about like he normally did. They still had one or two of their security hanging around, but they were just there to do their job. Phil looked after them, god love him. The security protected them from harm. To avoid any questions, Louis had immediately smiled at one of them as he waited by their car and told him pretty much what he was going to tell Phil, that today they had one less handful to deal with. Despite his uncertainty over Harry’s whereabouts, Louis found being in Brighton and keeping it much more low key was a refreshing change from the joyful madness they were usually surrounded by. Now they were jumping back into the increasingly familiar routine of recording songs. It helped that it was with Biff too, someone they’d had moments of contact with during the run of the show and how he’d readily agreed to give them guidance on their debut album.

The recording studio was one of a few in the tall, red brick building. Rehearsal rooms and big spaces for session musicians and orchestras filled the rest of the three floors. The recording studios themselves were enclosed, nearly almost window-less, and sometimes only comprising of the mixing desk and the sound booth next door. The light immediately came from the corridors, streaming in at both ends through the large, black edged windows. It was the perfect place for a breather when things weren’t going quite as planned.

The studio the boys meet Biff and his creative partners – Julian and Gareth – in is at least a little more spacious than a box room, with a sofa behind the knobs and buttons, stacks of technical machinery and just as many musical instruments. It’s still a little daunting to walk into such a hive of activity. When they step into the room, Gareth is swaying in his swivel chair and tinkering with an acoustic guitar.

“Hey lads,” he smiles, “Ready to do some work today?”

Gareth winks at Louis so he’s distracted enough that he misses Biff’s expression as he turns around from pressing this and that until the older man speaks, “All... _four_ of you?”

Louis swallows, not so keen on lying to someone they’d probably like to work with again if things go well, but Liam comes to his rescue.

“Sorry, no Harry today.” he says innocently, “He’s ill.”

“Oh well.” Biff replies, “One less mug to rinse after the tea break.”

He smiles and Louis keeps his face looking vaguely interested, but on the inside his heart aches. Harry should be here. They’ve spent so much time as a group together now that it’s intensely _wrong_ that he’s not.

\---

Not long after they arrive, everyone gets down to a relaxed brainstorming session full of ideas, laptops and the old paper and pen. The last time they were here, Louis distinctly remembers sitting on the dark blue sofa with Harry’s legs across his lap. As they got comfortable, they smiled at each other easily and it quickly turned into naughty giggling as Harry used his black notebook to write silly, meaningless notes to Louis about the other boys.

Today, Biff plays them a track he’s been steadily working on for the past couple of weeks. He’s looking to place it with a label that has ideas on who he could give it to. Louis is reminded of how Harry got tired of doodling on paper and tried to make Louis his canvas instead. He remembers jerking away with a laugh; Harry’s pen flicking across his wrists until Biff had shook his head good naturedly and took pity on him.

“Your turn, Harry.” he said, gesturing to the sound booth next door.

Harry had pointed at Louis menacingly with his pen then dropped it nonchalantly down the back of Liam’s t-shirt on the way past. His mixed look of surprise and irritation only made Louis laugh harder, relieved that Harry had targeted someone else.

“Louis? _Louis_ , are you alright?”

He blinks out of his reverie to see Biff has stopped explaining and is staring at him like he expects him to move, “Yeah, sorry. What’d I miss?”

Unfazed, Biff indicates next door with his head, “It’s your turn. Thought we might try this in the booth. Nothing concrete, just something to play around with.”

“But what about — ?” Louis automatically looks to his left, sees the empty seat on the sofa then cuts himself off. He smiles tightly and gets up, taking the lyric sheet from Biff and going through the door to the sound booth.

It feels an increasingly familiar setting. Standing behind any kind of microphone and headphones seem less of a problem after dealing with in-ear monitors, but when Louis looks through the glass and sees three bandmates not four, it’s yet another reminder that everything isn’t normal. Even if Harry’s somehow late or got something else to do like a doctor’s appointment, he’s never been gone this long. He’s never slacked off work to be with anyone else, let alone a girl he barely knows.

Louis carries the thoughts with him, although the expression on his face doesn’t betray him. Not at the start anyway. He sings and takes gentle, musing direction and praise until what’s on his mind doesn’t become a source of inspiration anymore but a distraction. Suddenly, he can’t hit the right notes, including ones he should be able to with no problems, and he gets tongue tied as he somehow loses his ability to simply read lyrics. His confidence plummets and he quickly clams up. It’s a sore spot that’s been getting better every day, but it’s still weak and opens easily like a knocked wound not properly stitched closed.

“I can’t.” he says, hating how feeble and difficult he sounds when everyone can see him.

Zayn jumps up from where he was sitting in Louis’ seat on the sofa behind the mixing desk and presses the button Biff was hovering over to talk to him. Louis watches Biff look at Julian beside him then back at Zayn with amusement in his eyes. Louis’ eyes slide to Zayn again.

“You can. It’s easy.” he tells him and quickly sings the couple of lines himself, encouraging. “See?”

Louis stares and after a long moment where he realises that Zayn isn’t giving up on him, none of them are, he relents. “Fine. I’ll try again.”

Nerves frayed and frustration bubbling over, it is a literal one try later that still doesn’t go right that has Louis sighing and pulling off his headphones.

“It’s still not working — I don’t know what — ” he groans, “Sorry. Can I just — ” he looks to Biff, patient as ever, “Five minutes? Please?”

“Sure thing, Louis.” he nods, “We’ll go around to Niall then come back to you.”

Louis heaves a quieter sigh and smiles weakly in return, “Thanks.”

Once outside of the studio and in the corridor, Louis takes his phone from his trouser pocket. He toys with it for a while, turning the object over in his hands as he leans against the wall. Minutes later, he bites the bullet and taps out a text to Harry, one that he never sent when Zayn interrupted him back at the guesthouse. A text couldn’t hurt. Harry didn’t need to reply and if he wanted to it gave him enough time to finish whatever – _whoever_ , Louis’ mind unhelpfully needled - he was doing first. A call was more instant and if Harry ignored that, well, Louis definitely wouldn’t know where he stood or what was going on with his best friend then.

 

To: Curly  
 _WHERE R U ? NEED U x_

 

Text sent, Louis squeezes his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to rid himself of the tension. He feels like he’s been fake all morning and wonders if the others are feeling it too. It’s tiring work. When he hears the door open beside him, he doesn’t look up to see who it is, doesn’t care. 

He groans again instead, “Just five minutes. That’s all I need.”

“Mate, I’m your friend.” Zayn’s voice tells him, making Louis glance his way in surprise as he steps out and closes the door behind him. “We met, we got on, and now you’re stuck with me. Deal with it.” Louis goes to apologise, but Zayn shakes his head, clearly not finished as he adds, “Besides, now that Harry’s gone AWOL, you _have_ to talk to me.”

He puts his arm around Louis’ shoulders and silently holds him tight for a second or two. Louis’ still a little surprised because they don’t really have cuddly kind of relationship. It's lighter. Louis knows he can be a lad with Zayn, can be extra boyish and talk him into the most risky of pranks without ever having the need to spill too many of his feelings or emotions. They fight, physical but playful, and it oddly seems to keep Louis gentle with everyone else, like Zayn’s his pressure valve.

“Why you?” he retorts, wary, “Why not Liam? Or Niall? I love all of you equally, you know that.”

“I do,” Zayn nods and it’s as close to admitting the platonic love is mutual that they’ve ever got, “but Payne, seriously? Nialler?” his eyebrows raise sceptically, “Liam would awkwardly punch your arm and dole out something he read in a self help book or some shit and Niall, well, he thinks you’re amazing and hilarious so he’d probably just try to hug you until you snapped out of it and told him one of your terrible jokes.”

“Terrible — ?” Louis’ mouth drops open incredulously, secretly relieved that the moment seems to be shifting back to its normal state, “And _you_ ’re here because?”

“Like I said,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “I know you can do it. Harry’s not the only one who has faith in you, y’know.”

The sudden and intense look Zayn sends him, unwavering but searching for the reassurance inside Louis that he instinctively knows all this soppy stuff anyway, makes Louis’ throat dangerously close up. Every time he enjoys singing he’s reminded why the joy is even bigger because of his four best friends being on stage with him. He couldn’t imagine being a solo artist right now.

“Alright,” he sighs once he can speak and to cover the emotion he’s valiantly squashing down, “you’re scaring me now. Go back to being vain and sarcastic and uncaring, please.” Zayn breaks their eye contact and moves his arm, stepping back. Louis speaks before he thinks and for once it’s a good thing, “But thanks. And I know. I guess I’m just used to him being here, being with me, especially when I have — well, y’know. ‘A moment.’”

Zayn snorts in amusement, “Be glad you only have moments. I’m fairly certain one day Liam will have a tantrum. Or a heart attack. Or both. He likes to believe he’s all _mature_ and everything, but really he’s just repressed.”

Louis blinks at him. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

“Louis!” he cries in his exaggerated accent and cuffs him around the back of the head, “My man, I’m in good company!”

He can’t help chuckling as he follows Zayn into the studio again. It feels good to laugh and he resolves to put Harry out of his mind for now. Despite his mind trying to tell him otherwise and even when he’s failing at it, recording is still fun. It’s a novelty, but the close proximity is what he probably loves as much as the singing. Someone is always within earshot to tell a funny anecdote to or within reach to be able to mess around.

Unfortunately, fate conspires and the minute he’s sat down next to Zayn on the sofa, Louis’ phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s on silent so there’s no accompanying noise to unnecessarily interrupt anything and he reads the message with a blank face that slowly settles into a frown as he leans back into his seat. It reads:

 

From: Curly  
 _I’M FINE. DON’T WORRY._

 

Even with a quick first glance at it, Louis can already catalogue several things wrong with Harry’s reply to his earlier text.

1\. No kiss. As sentimental as it is, it’s just a silly little thing they do. It happened on Twitter until it started spilling into their texts and neither bothered to stop it.

2\. Louis didn’t ask _how_ he was, but _where_. Of course, Harry’s reply could’ve been a double reassurance that was also a nonchalant and subtle “no big deal, mind your own business” kind of thing. Louis learnt to decode such messages months ago and that was usually Zayn’s style.

3\. But the biggest worry was Harry’s lack thereof for Louis. He’d confessed he _needed_ him and...nothing.

Louis was starting to think that “Harry” wasn’t really Harry at all.

“Is that Hazza?”

Louis blinks out of his thoughts, his frown smoothing out as he looks at Zayn. He shields his phone from Zayn trying to peer at it and isn’t sure why other than he feels caught out that he’s obviously been staring at the text for longer than strictly necessary.

“What?” 

“Has Harry text you? Has he said where he is, the slacker?”

“He says he’s “fine”,” Louis answers slowly, including the use of quotation marks with his fingers to show his unconvinced displeasure, “and not to worry.”

“Hey, what did I tell you?” Zayn whispers with a grin, punching his arm lightly, “He’s okay.”

Before Louis can reply, Liam crosses over to them with an acoustic guitar in his hand. Gareth’s been teaching him some more whilst Niall’s busy in the sound booth. He sits on the armrest closest to Louis as Zayn looks up at him.

“Louis’ had word from Harry,” he tells the blonde, keeping his voice low so their cover that Harry is “ill” is still intact. “He says he’s fine and don’t worry.”

“Is that it?”

“What do you mean ‘is that it’?” Zayn frowns, “He’s checked in and that’s the main thing. At least he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere, right?”

Liam rolls his eyes and then shifts, his expression uncomfortable and as unsure as Louis feels inside, “I don’t know. ‘Fine’ just sounds so vague and ‘don’t worry’? Of course we’re going to worry, he’s our best friend.”

“Well, I don’t keep tabs on my friends from home.”

“It doesn’t sound like him.” Louis cuts in, speaking aloud the thought that’d been whirling around in his head for the minutes since he got the damn text. “It’s...cold.”

“ _It sounds like_ he’s got himself more than a one-nighter.” Zayn smiles, ruffling Louis’ hair.

Its seconds like those that seem at odds with Zayn’s laid back attitude to whys and whereabouts. A quick hug or a hand through the hair is one of the few times he lets his actions truly speak for him with nothing to contradict it, like he’s trying to keep his cool. It causes Louis to lean into the touch and hesitantly let the subject drop. Still, when he sneaks a glance at his face after Liam swaps with Niall in the sound booth, Louis can’t help noticing the faraway look in Zayn’s eyes as he stares into space. Maybe some issues mean it’s difficult to practice what you preach.

\---

Harry drowsily opens his eyes and, for one blissful second, fools himself into thinking he’s anywhere but where he actually is. In his mind, he’s back at the guesthouse and he’s just woken up in the bed that’ll be his until have to move on to record songs elsewhere. Daylight caresses his face and he’s delightfully warm underneath the covers. _Five more minutes_ , he tells himself, as his head lolls to the side. He checks for Louis but he isn’t there.

Harry sucks in a breath as reality crashes into him like another punch to the face. Air gets stuck somewhere in his throat because his nose still throbs with a depth of feeling he’s always having to push to the edges of his consciousness and ignore. It’s not like he’s made a habit of getting punched in the face – or anywhere at all, really – so far in his young life. A slap here and there, sure, but that barely will register now, through the intense aching hurt of his muscles. The dank atmosphere with only occasional streams of grateful light cling to his skin and he’s still cold. It’s not enough to start shivering or feel numb, but its dampness seeps into his flesh nonetheless, attacking the spaces where he’s most visible. His chest tightens like there’s a hand physically squeezing his heart and simultaneously pressing down on his ribs as another bout of missing Louis, missing his boys, makes him dizzy. He carefully sniffs back emotion, trampling all over it because he knows the cronies by the door are still keeping a watchful eye on him. There’s no denying to himself that he wants to break down and cry, yell or plain scream out every pain he can feel everywhere, but he won’t. He _won’t_ do it; he won’t give these people the satisfaction. At least while he can help it. He’s not in control of much right now, except that.

Just as he’s shutting his eyes again and thinking of anything that doesn’t include blood, itchy wrists or wet feet, Harry hears footsteps coming closer. For the first time since the musty material was stretched tight against his mouth that early morning, he bites down with his teeth and doesn’t look up. His eyelashes flutter, torn between closing his eyes properly and warily staring at the feet that pace in front of him. However, Harry flinches fully awake when there’s a bark of laughter. He gives in to temptation and lifts his head, but Freya’s father is not looking at him, having a laugh at his expense. Instead, icy blue eyes are fixed on what appears to be a mobile phone. Suddenly, the eyes glance his way and the feet change direction, coming towards Harry quickly, decisively.

Freya’s father crouches down beside his legs, bringing their gazes level. Harry’s expression whenever he sees him now is set into a glare by default, although it’s lost some of its intensity through tiredness and utter boredom.

“Yes.” he murmurs mysteriously, eyes sparkling.

He unexpectedly brandishes the phone close to Harry’s face and Harry blinks, realising that it’s actually _his_. He knows this because of a tiny scratch at the top of the screen and the list of texts in his inbox.

“Yes,” Freya’s father says, standing to his full height, “it’s yours. Freya’s bedside cabinet.” he tuts, shaking his head, “Another rookie mistake, Harry. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to leave valuables in plain view? Anyone could come along and pick them up.”

Harry falters, his eyes widening a little at the mention of his mum. Soon they’re going to pass the threshold for how long he hasn’t spoken to her in some shape or form. 

“Louis’ been texting you.” he says, walking away then turning back on his heel to see Harry’s surprised, increasingly stricken expression, “Says he ‘needs you’. Oh, and a kiss too. What’s going on there, hmm?”

Harry feels his jaw clench and his teeth ache as he bites down harder on the gag, finally learning that trying to talk is useless unless he wants to make Freya’s father laugh again. He sees alien thumbs glide across the touch-screen and eyes peek at him in constant mischief.

“That should shut him up for a while.” he smiles once he’s finished, slipping Harry’s phone into his trouser pocket.

Louis needs him. Louis _needs_ him and he’s not around.

Harry feels a wave of nausea roll from the pit of his stomach as he thinks about Louis going through whatever it is alone and for what the hell Freya’s father text him in reply. He wants him to come near again so he can kick him in the fucking balls like he should’ve determinedly done before, damn the consequences. Most of all, he hopes he knows Louis a lot better than Freya’s father thinks he does and that Louis will know something is wrong.

He remembers the last time Louis properly needed him. Sure, there’d been little moments during the live finals, but the five of them had needed each other. Ironically, they barely knew each other the last time it really happened. It was at bootcamp and a good hundred or so people were milling about, the buzz of noise low but insistent. It was the second day and Louis and Harry had met the day before, their individual friendship groups colliding happily. Louis was just as friendly as Harry, something to be relieved about in a situation like that, and he instantly had banter or ridiculous ideas to fill the spaces with. But even through a couple of snatched hours with him, Harry could already tell that there was more to Louis than comic relief. He had no idea what he sounded like, but he knew he liked him well enough as a person anyway, one of life’s good guys. So, whilst the madness whizzed about around them, Harry snuck a glance at Louis to find his expression serious. No, _worried_.

“Hey,” he said with a small smile, nudging Louis’ elbow with his own.

“What?” Louis replied, turning his eyes to him and grinning.

Now he’s been privy to many a Louis grin, he can safely say for certain what a genuine one looks like. His eyes crinkle at the corners, sometimes they briefly close when fully amused, and his smile is radiant, toothy. The grin he gave Harry that day did none of those things except show him some teeth. Harry’s shocked these days by how he _wasn’t_ instantly fooled, but it’s the truth.

“Don’t give me ‘what’.” he said, preferring to be blunt because he hoped Louis would know this was coming from a good place, “Are you nervous?” Louis gave him a split second look, “more nervous than the usual, I mean.”

“No!” he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest and peering down at his Toms. A beat. “Maybe. A little.” Harry wisely kept his mouth shut as the unsaid words still hung in the air between them. “A lot. _Alright_ , I’m fucking bricking it! Is that what you want to hear? Some mate you are.”

Harry fought his own real grin at being referred to as a “mate” and reached out to Louis’ shoulder. Just from that point of contact, Harry could feel that Louis was suddenly tense all over. He wondered if he’d overstepped the mark, if Louis didn’t appreciate physical comfort, but his doubts were swept away when Louis sighed and gave him a tentative smile from under his red beanie and wisps of fringe.

“Listen,” Harry said, warming to the role of pep talker as he put both hands onto Louis’ shoulders to make him look into his eyes, “Everything’s going to be okay.” he rolled his eyes at the raised eyebrow sent his way, “ _Fine_ , I don’t know that for sure, but I’m just trying to help you calm the fuck down.”

Louis stared at him for a few long moments, not uncurling his arms from around his body, but at least taking that look to bolt any second now out from his eyes. Harry realised then that he was clinging to his pep talk as much as Louis was and he was clinging just as hard to Louis himself.

“It’s working,” he said eventually, turning so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Harry instead of opposite him, “I think. I hope. Thanks. Are you nervous?”

“Fucking bricking it.” Harry replied, not missing a trick.

With Harry, it sounded like it lacked something that Louis gave the phrase. Maybe it was his accent, but as soon as they glanced at each other again they couldn’t resist bursting into giggles that seemed almost illicit considering the circumstances.

In that moment, Louis needed Harry. Harry needed Louis. So their friendship grew.

Harry feels the anticipation of a threatening step towards him and sees Freya’s father do just that, obviously noticing faint traces of a reminiscing smile leaking around the edges of the gag.

“I told him you were fine.” he says coolly, his gaze suddenly turning to steel, “He’s not text back. Looks like he doesn’t ‘need you’ after all, so you can wipe that smile off your face!”

He raises the back of his hand high then swings it low in a quick sweeping motion, slapping Harry hard enough across the face that his head twists to the side on impact and he briefly sees stars. It hurts a lot more because he’s still got the phone clutched inside his palm, the solid object colliding with the vulnerable flesh of Harry’s cheek. Harry gasps, immediately afraid that blood will start to pour again. He’s almost thankful that he can only feel the sting of a handprint and maybe a few scratches.

Freya’s father makes a quick little step towards him, like he’s trying to frighten away a barking dog, and Harry hates that he flinches as a reflex. It’s belatedly dawning on him that he really is undoubtedly exposed and that anything can be done to him given half a chance. Freya’s father grins this time and turns to walk away.

Harry’s not expecting him to speak, so when he does it’s his natural reaction to look up, watching the retreating back.

“By the way,” he tells him as lazily as his sure footfalls, “in case you want to lambast me in your thoughts, the name’s Luka. I rather like the idea of being notoriously famous, even if it is just in your pretty little head. For now anyway. Goodbye, Harry.”

\---

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Louis throws himself backwards and lets out a long sigh. After a hard day’s work, he was hoping that returning to the guesthouse would be a welcome break but it simply means he has more time to think. It’s not good at the best of times and it’s definitely not helping right now. Some small, hopeful part of him thought that Harry might’ve appeared the second they traipsed through the door, a big grin on his face and mischievously pleased that he’d skived off work in favour of getting some action. As he stares at the ceiling, art deco blurring into one swirly mess through unfocused eyes, Louis wishes the both of them to appear – Harry and the girl he’s so interested in – just so he knows he’s safe. It’s slowly approaching twenty four hours since they were altogether and the idea that something is wrong keeps niggling at him, but he’s not sure what to actually do about it. Tell the others? Call Simon? Call Harry’s mum? Say, _hi I think we’ve somehow managed to lose your son_?

Louis gets to his feet and walks over to the dressing table he sat at last night whilst Harry got dressed behind him. He sits down on the powder blue stool and looks at the mirror in front of him, remembering how his gaze connected with Harry’s as they talked. Despite the fact that he might be seen as “the loud one”, their room feels so quiet, he’s got no one to talk to. On his way up the stairs, Zayn had passed him with his laptop tucked under his arm, no doubt going to settle in front of the TV and flirt with obvious girls on Twitter. The last time Louis saw Liam and Niall, they had been in chatting in the tiny garden at the back of the building, their feet on the sturdy, green metal table. Louis had thought about making a quip, something about disrespecting poor old garden furniture but they’d looked so happy that he didn’t have the heart to spoil actual, easy fun. Liam saw him lurking by the kitchen door and his expression dropped a little, as if he felt guilty for laughing when Harry wasn’t around to occupy Louis, maybe even missing. Niall turned his head and matched the look. Louis told them not to worry – about him or anyone else – made some excuse to get back inside. He passed Zayn in the armchair and ruffled his hair just to see fail to duck out from under his wandering hand.

Louis leans onto two legs of the stool and nearly falls off when his phone on the dresser starts ringing loudly and vibrating across the surface. He sees _HARRY’S MUM_ flash onto the screen. Harry must have changed it from ‘Curly’s Mum’ when he wasn’t looking and Anne’s not mentioned by name as Louis knows he’ll do anything to...not piss her off exactly, but to be cheekily different. “Yes, Harry’s mum”, “no, Harry’s mum”, “of course I mean it, Harry’s mum” before eventually giving in and calling her Anne to her face...but not changing it in his phone. Small victories.

He grins as he answers the call, “Hello you, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” 

“How about I haven’t heard from my son in hours and I called the first person I thought of?”

“And you thought of me? Now you know our love is horribly forbidden, Anne.”

“Who’s? Mine and yours or yours and Harry’s?” 

Louis laughs, enjoying the fact that she shoots from the hip, especially when she wants something. It’s probably where Harry gets it from, demanding when he wants answers so, although it’s nice to chat, Louis feels the tickle of nerves creep up his throat. If Harry’s own _mother_ asks where Harry is and why he evidently hasn’t been answering her curious calls, what’s he going to say to _that_?

“So, where is he, Louis? It’s not like him to not check in.”

 _I know_ shapes on Louis’ tongue but he can’t say the words, can’t let her think and worry that something’s wrong when it’s more than likely nothing at all.

“Y’know, we’ve been...busy and stuff. Recording’s hard work!”

“I bet it is,” she retorts dryly, “Is he with you? Why am I even asking you that, of course he’s with you. You wouldn’t mind passing me onto him for a minute, would you?”

“Um...” Louis stalls, frantically looking around the room for inspiration as he feels the sudden compulsion to lie. He twists awkwardly on the stool, sees the open doorway and something clicks. “Can’t sorry, he’s in the shower.”

“Oh.” she replies, disappointed and Louis thinks she’s probably also deciding whether she believes him or not. _Please please please please please_. “Okay then. If you’ve had a busy day I’ll try him again tomorrow. Thanks though and I’ll let you go. Bye, honey.”

Louis returns the goodbye and ends the call, swallowing hard. It’s strange but he’s even more nervous now, knowing this is the first time that he’s had to tell Anne a bare faced lie when he promised her that he’d look out for her baby boy and he’s clearly failing at it. He looks at his phone, at the rectangular touch-screen, and sighs. Suddenly, the legs of the stool give up the ghost and, with a yell, Louis falls flat on his back on the carpet. He bursts out laughing, amused because the fall was not so great from its stubby little legs and he feels the wooden remains dig into him. However, his giggles soon ebb away, once he realises that no one is there to join in, to laugh at or with him.

Quickly, Zayn arrives at the bedroom doorway as he comes from downstairs to see what the thud was. He’s a one man stampede because Niall and Liam are out of the guesthouse and the noise wasn’t that loud. Zayn looks at Louis sprawled on the floor and raises an eyebrow.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies, getting to his feet at last and brushing splinters off his clothes, “but I think I killed her.”

“Her?”

“This,” he smiles at Zayn’s quizzical expression, picking up two of the broken legs, “Well, I’m not going to sit on a ‘him’, am I?”

Zayn appears sceptical, but Louis sees him glance at his watch like it’s become a habit and obviously bites back his retort that probably features Harry. Between the awkwardness from Liam (more than usual), the incomplete look in Niall’s gaze and Zayn failing to mention their friend, Louis comes to the conclusion that they’re acting like Harry’s _dead_ or something. It’s then that he makes a decision. He’s got to get out of this place. He kicks the debris underneath the dresser and tells himself he’ll clean it up later but being almost certain that he won’t.

“Hey, Zayn?” he says as his bandmate turns to leave, commotion over, “I’m going out, okay?”

“What? Now?” he actually frowns at him, as if it’s another one of Louis’ ridiculous ideas. “Where?”

“Dunno,” Louis realises as he replies, shrugging his shoulders, “just...out.”

He reaches for his iPhone and that’s him, ready to go. He pushes past Zayn, who still seems to be processing why Louis would want to go out, not know where and on his own but can’t get his vocal chords to work. There’s a joke in there somewhere but Louis’ too single-minded right at that moment to pay it any attention and the slam of the door as he steps outside holds its own brilliant relief.

Its nine o’clock and dark outside with a slight, cool breeze in the air. Someone else might go back for their coat but Louis keeps walking away from the guesthouse, down the residential street, and dressed in just a striped t-shirt, trousers rolled up at the ankles and white Toms. Despite the goosebumps, Louis resolutely tucks his hair further underneath his grey beanie and looks for whatever might turn into an adventure, anything to block out the memory that he lied to someone he respects and how long it’ll be before she gets to the truth.

Eventually he comes to a stop just off a main road and ambles down the side street to his left until standing in front of him is a pub. It’s already a mash up of old and new, beige painted lower half mixing with red brick higher up, faded into orange tones through age, and white framed windows with many panes. Its black doors sit imposingly at the mouth of the building but the thought of alcohol makes him feel oddly hopeful, so he goes with it and steps through the doors. Inside is even cosier, lights dimmed low even as the night crawls over town. A lot of red and mahogany wood greets Louis’ eyes as he walks up to the bar and takes a seat on a high wooden chair. Only then, as he’s got his hand in his pocket to pull out change for his drink, does his heart skip a forgetful beat at the realisation that he might not have enough money to last the night.

When the barmaid sits a pint glass of the cheapest beer he can afford down on the bar, Louis takes a steadying gulp and catches the eye of a blonde sitting round the corner. She crosses her bare legs and smiles. Louis doesn’t.

\---

“So...yeah. There you have it. That’s how I ended up in a boyband.” Louis waves a hand as he rests his elbows on the bar and frowns at the blonde – Katrina...Candice...Karly... _something_ with a K. Or a C, he can’t quite remember – “You don’t believe me, do you? How could you not believe me? Look at this face. This is not a lying face.”

He picks up the bottle in front of him, having graduated to something with a little bit more punch ( _percentage_ ) to it, and takes a sip as he stares at her with a sidelong gaze. He sees her glossed lips twitch, a split second smirk, until her eyes blatantly rake over him.

This was so far from his original plan, but a voice in the back of his head did tell him that once he got into this pub that he’d more than likely end up at least tipsy. Never mind that, he’s well on his way to being flat out drunk, which explains why the woman he didn’t even want to look at two hours before is his new best friend. Louis leans his head on his hand as they prop up the small bar, with only a few other people sitting in chairs in this part of the pub. The sky is almost black through the windows and the lighting is as low in the room as when he came here, as if they encourage dodgy dealings and even dodgier hook-ups. He goes to take other drink as she speaks.

“Are you gay?”

He nearly chokes on his mouthful of beer, trying valiantly to swallow properly and not die on the poor girl, even if it is sort of her fault.

“What? _No_!” he laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring at her, aghast.

“Sorry,” she says as her eyebrow rises in amusement, “you _did_ say you were in a boyband.”

“Not all guys in ‘boybands’” oh god, he wants to stop himself making inverted commas with his fingers but he _can’t_ , “are gay. Trust me, I’m not.”

“No?” she counters, leaning away in her chair.

Louis follows her legs uncrossing and crossing like before, except it’s become rather enticing. The whole picture shouldn’t be – seedy pub, drunk off his arse, suspect woman sitting at the bar in ridiculously short red dress like the personification of femme fatale – but maybe that’s why it feels so right. Maybe he should do something reckless for a change. Pranking his bandmates is one thing, actually doing something he probably wouldn’t when he’s sober sounds like the best definition ever of crazy to his alcohol-muddled brain. People expect him to be a little bit mad and stupid and all over the place, so why not live up to it, even if it is just for a night.

He crooks his hand and they both lean forward until he can whisper into her ear, moving her blonde, wavy hair away from her neck, “I really like you.”

She chuckles knowingly with a shake of the head, “No, you don’t.”

“Okay.” Louis grins fully, understanding, “You want blunt? I’ve been looking down your dress every chance I get.”

“And?”

“You’ve got _fantastic_ tits. Think I’m gay now?”

“Finally something I can work with.” she giggles, letting her hand fall naturally to squeeze his knee, “You’re not my usual type, too much of a pretty boy, but you only live once, right?”

She climbs down slowly from her stool and her height barely diminishes in her high heels. She strokes delicate fingers over Louis’ cheek and he blinks, not expecting the seemingly tender move until she grabs his hand.

“Wait,” he says, eyes unfocused and body thrumming with the thrill, “er. What’s your name again?”

“Harmony.”

Louis opens then shuts his mouth, squinting warily before he finds that makes him dizzier than he already is. K _or_ C wasn’t even close. He’d feel like an idiot if she didn’t still look interested in him and he wasn’t drunk enough to not care about being a fool.

“That’s not your actual name, is it?”

“Does it matter?” she says, looking at him seductively from underneath her intensely black eyelashes.

Louis feels another insistent tug on his hand and goes with her this time, sliding off the seat and traipsing behind her to the toilets. Once there, she turns and uses her back to push the door, keeping eye contact when she yanks Louis forward by the front of his t-shirt. It’s only when he sees the pink colour of the walls that he realises she’s shoved him into the women’s.

“Oh you little minx,” he tuts, crowding Harmony against the wall beside the main door.

“At your service, sweetheart.” she smiles, kissing him full on the mouth as her arms wrap around his neck and she practically jumps at him.

He has to steady himself on the radiator (that thankfully isn’t switched on) behind them, swaying dangerously with the effort of having her legs locked around his waist whilst he barely has the faculties to make sure he stays upright himself.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he grins, blinking the two versions of Harmony out from his eyes and shoving her unceremoniously in the nearest stall.

She shrieks delightedly and climbs onto his lap when he sits down, the thin, satin straps of her dress falling halfway down her tanned shoulders. Louis moves her hair from where it’s sticking to her lipgloss and kisses from her ear to her neck and shoulder. Harmony cradles the back of his hat-covered head and wriggles against his legs the closer he gets to where she wants him. To save the trouble of a frustrated fumble, she pulls the straps of her bra down but leaves it hooked near her waist as her dress gathers there too and Louis kisses the emerging flesh, his tongue licking between the valley of her sizeable breasts. It causes her to arch towards his touch, but it’s not nearly enough and she forcibly slides his hand underneath her dress then opens his trousers. He’s silent, except for the wet sounds of their fevered kissing, but Harmony more than makes up for it, keening high in the back of her throat as Louis pulls her meagre excuse for knickers aside and strokes two fingers inside her. She’s starting to clench and rock onto them when there’s a bang and a shout calling Harmony’s name. She tightens again, but this time in shock, if the wide eyed look on her face is any indication. Her eyes slip helplessly shut though and her hands grip Louis’ shoulders quickly as Louis drunkenly doesn’t let up. His thumb firmly rubs at her clit, but neither of them have the chance to get lost in the feeling as, in the next second, the unlocked stall door (probably one of a catalogue of errors Louis’ about to look back on) bangs open and rattles on its hinges.

“Harmony?!” both her and Louis’ gazes snap up at the sound of the booming yell and he sees a huge, bald-headed guy covered in tattoos stood in the doorway, pretty much blocking it. “What the fuck are you doing, bitch?!”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Louis replies before he can stop himself and out of the corner of his eye Harmony’s mouth drops open.

Whoever this guy is, apparently answering back is not the wisest course of action to take. Louis _knows_ that in his head but, with alcohol in his veins and a rebellious undercurrent towards authority already present in his personality, his mouth has clearly decided to disagree on being cautious.

“Now kindly fuck off, there’s a good boy!” he adds and he’s sure he hears a mortified giggle from Harmony as he uses the V of his fingers that were just _inside her_ to physically swear at him too.

Although he doesn’t show it and knows it’s gone too far for that now anyway, Louis’ mind goes into meltdown and even he has voices that are screaming _NO! NO! NO!_ at him and irrationally _GET OUT! GET OUT! ESCAPE NOW!_

Bald Guy makes a terrifying roar and Harmony screams, scrambling off Louis’ lap just in time before Bald Guy roughly grabs hold of him and wrenches him out of the stall. Louis spins around and stumbles as he’s let go, his head all over the place and his stomach feeling a little sick. Harmony squeals “Pete! No!” but ‘Pete’ ignores her with a grunt and advances on him quickly, leading with his fists. He lands a punch on Louis’ mouth, splitting his lip to bleed, and continues like it’s not enough, punching Louis hard in the eye to make him reel backwards in real pain and shock.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” he yells, hands in the air and wobbling precariously on the spot as blood drips from his lips and his eye already feels ugly and swollen, “I’m sorry! I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, I swear!”

“Husband, actually.”

“ _Fuck_.”

He’s open, stock still through astonishment, and Pete strikes, thrusting his knee into Louis’ stomach to make him cry out in agony and crumple to the dirty floor. He feels the kick of a boot go in after it.

“Yeah, you should be sorry, you little twat.” Pete snaps, teeth bared in a growl. “Harmony, out. _Now_.”

Louis opens the eye that isn’t closing by itself and stops rolling around on the tiles to see Pete turn and push Harmony bodily out the door. When their raised voices sound more distant after a few moments of staring up at the ceiling and waiting, Louis plants his hands on the floor and heaves himself up into a sitting position. He coughs violently, his diaphragm aching, and sees his hand smeared with blood when he takes it away.

“Shit.” he whispers rather eloquently for the situation.

He stands and is gingerly checking and poking his face reflected in the mirror when a trio of giggly women enter the toilets. Their clicking heels stop as they see the shocking sight of a _guy_ in there, blood on his t-shirt and his face a little messed up from an obvious beating. Louis does a double take, realising their attire. _Christ, is this prostitute central or something?_

If he’s honest with himself, he knew from the minute he saw “Harmony” that she was one of them and if that had worked out the way his drunken mind had wanted it to then he wouldn’t have really cared. It was easy to forget, to lose yourself, when the other person meant nothing at all. He thought that was his problem all along. He cared about Hannah and that went south, he’s depressingly single, his best friend’s missing and his other friends have no idea that he’s just been knocked about for nearly fucking an unfaithful prostitute. Trust him to find probably the only prostitute with an angry husband who was unaware of his wife’s questionable career choice!

Louis stubbornly stays to wash his hands at the sink then hobbles past the ladies of the night, suddenly wanting to get out of there just like he had wanted to leave the guesthouse. He’d rather not go back, despite the fact that it’s almost midnight and the boys might be asleep by now, but he’s got nowhere else to go. He stumbles into many on the journey, an arm tucked against his sore stomach in an effort to stem any painful, sharp breaths. Although he purposely didn’t stray too far away, he feels like he aches from head to toe, as if the short walk was torture even for his feet. He takes the few steps slowly then leans a hand on the glass of the forest green door to the guesthouse and just _breathes_ for a moment, eyes closed. It hurts, everything hurts, but he knows he needs to chalk this up to unfortunate experience and move on. He’ll tell the boys a heavily edited version of the reality tomorrow morning, enough to explain the suddenly bloomed cuts and bruises, because he’s already miserably lied to one person tonight and it’s pretty much got him nowhere. 

He knows he has to go through the living area to have a brief visit to the kitchen, so Louis tries to close the front door as quietly as possible, which is difficult when you’re still caught between drunk and sober. Being punched in the face sobered him up quickly for sure, but there’s no denying that alcohol is in his system until his horrific hangover tomorrow. He manages to tiptoe into the room, thankful for the carpet and his Toms. The TV is on low but Louis ignores Zayn slumped on the sofa. He thinks he’s asleep, so his whole body tenses awkwardly when he hears a quick, awakening breath and a mumbled, “Lou?”

He doesn’t answer and almost runs into the kitchenette, forgetting that Zayn will able to see him. Louis drops his beanie nearby, turns on the cold water tap and hopes it doesn’t wake Liam and Niall as the water gushes out into the first glass he gets his hands on. He belatedly realises as the glass knocks against the metal of the sink that he’s shaking. He brings the glass carefully to his lips as he senses Zayn at the other end of the kitchen.

“Louis?”

At least he thought he was there because Louis’ heart climbs into his throat as he feels a hand try and pull him round. He shrugs the touch off but sways dangerously, suddenly queasy at the sight of his blood on the rim of the glass. Zayn finally turns him around by both his shoulders and his tired eyes widen at the picture Louis undoubtedly makes. He’d had a hard time looking at himself in the toilets at the pub, but he suspects that’s more to do with being annoyed at his own stupidity than surprise that a burly man like Pete can swing his fists to great effect. Zayn doesn’t know the story and is therefore understandably taken aback and deeply concerned.

“Zayn, don’t.” Louis says tiredly, knowing what he’s going to do.

But he’s already running for the staircase, actually yelling for Liam and Niall to wake up. Louis follows, too sore to be quick. Zayn calls for Harry too because of habit and Louis winces, knowing he’ll have to press the issue of what they’re going to do about him once they’re calm enough about this. Predictably, it doesn’t take long for Liam and Niall to come barrelling out of their rooms to meet Zayn who’s stopped halfway on the stairs.

“Louis!” Niall is the first to speak, eyes as big as saucers, “Are you alright?!”

Louis tries the tactic of dismissal and waves his hand in front of himself, “S’nothin’. ‘M’fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Liam responds, staring at Louis with his mouth a thin line as he shakes his head.

He comes down the stairs, past Zayn without so much of a glance, and grabs hold of Louis’ bicep to basically frogmarch him back into the kitchen. They stop at the tiny table that’s placed against the wall and therefore only sits three people.

“Sit.” he says tightly.

Louis sighs, “Listen, Liam, I — ”

“Sit down!” he snaps and Louis blinks in wordless surprise before doing as he’s told and pulling out the nearest chair.

Zayn moves and touches Liam’s arm, a silent “calm it” then he starts pacing over the small square of linoleum. Niall stands at the other side of the kitchen, hovering awkwardly. Louis looks at Zayn as Liam busies himself with stuff they don’t dare comment on.

“What the hell happened, mate?” Zayn asks then runs his hand over his face, “Shit, I _knew_ I should’ve stopped you before.”

Liam returns to the table with a bowl of cold water and a flannel and sits down adjacent to Louis to soak the soft material. Louis stares at Liam’s hands with his good eye, already feeling suitably chastised and small, even though he hasn’t told them any of what happened yet. For what feels like forever, Zayn waits, but now the moment’s here Louis can’t bring himself to recount his reckless behaviour. When he shrugs miserably, Zayn sighs and he didn’t even know Zayn could sound that grown up, like he’s a parent and Louis’ the problem child. It might be funny if he wasn’t feeling so lousy in body and mind and the others didn’t look so tired. Liam’s not doing a bad job either, raising Louis’ chin so their eyes connect and slowly cleaning the blood from his lip and soothing the angry marks on his skin that will turn into bruising. He hisses when Liam presses too hard or the sting is too much, but is quickly bashful when the thin line of Liam’s mouth appears again.

“Seriously, Lou, we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what happened. Did you get mugged or something?”

“Did you get caught up in a fight that you tried to stop?”

“Did you hit yourself in the face for going out alone and not coming back until _hours_ later? Where the fuck did you go, Louis?”

Louis shrugs to every one of Zayn’s questions, no matter how frantic they get and he hates seeing his laid back friend so wound up like this. He wishes he could say it was one of those scenarios, but it’s not and the intense embarrassment prevents him from confessing. At least if he’s not saying anything, he’s not lying either. Hearing Zayn pace behind him must get on Liam’s nerves because eventually he smiles slightly at him and Niall.

“Go on, you go to bed. We’ll finish up here and follow you in no time.” he tells them both and, whilst Louis is a little confused, his friends look uncertainly at each other. “It’s alright. Go.”

Niall turns to leave, his expression worried. Louis tries to smile at him reassuringly but with Liam’s fingertips skating over his face its difficult and it doesn’t look like Niall will believe him anyway. Zayn pats Liam’s shoulder and goes after Niall, shaking his head and without so much as a backwards glance at Louis. It hurts emotionally now, another ache added to his physical injuries and it’s almost too much to take. Once alone, Louis is surprised to see Liam drop his hands and sit back in his seat. Louis stares at him wearily, his jaw sore, lower lip smarting and his eye feeling so swollen it’s like he can only see through a tiny gap. He watches Liam get up and go to the fridge, wrapping some ice in a checked tea towel before handing it over.

“So will you tell _me_ what happened tonight?” he asks, sitting down again as Louis carefully puts the ice to his jaw and eye. “Because clearly something did.”

Louis lets his gaze drift away, settling on the wood of the small table for something to focus on that isn’t Liam’s concerned brown eyes.

“I...” he’s aware of Liam leaning forward, completely attentive, “I’ve just been really stupid that’s all. No change there, eh?”

“How? What did you do? When me and Niall came back in from the garden, Zayn said you’d gone out. Where’d you go?”

Louis breathes in deeply and recounts the tale in a rush, forgetting to censor anything like he had planned whilst outside the guesthouse. He tells Liam everything until he can feel the phantom touches of the punches all over again.

“I’m so sorry.” he whispers wretchedly, bringing his eyes to Liam.

He was hoping looking somewhere else – where he didn’t have to see emotion - might stem the embarrassing urge to cry, but as soon as he looks at his worried friend he already feels his cut lower lip start to tremble. The movement stings and so do the quick onslaught of tears, bursting out like a broken dam as they slide down his cheeks and hurt his eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Liam tries to soothe him, a hand tipping Louis forward by the back of his neck to let him rest on his shoulder as he becomes a sobbing, self-pitying mess, “You’re safe now.”

“Sorry.” Louis sniffs after a while, time passing too much to be comfortable with crying in front of his friend like that.

“Stop saying that.” Liam smiles softly. “ Although I’m sorry too. About the way I reacted, I mean. Just...you coming back like that, it scared the crap out of me.”

He brushes Louis’ fringe away from his eyes, the ends damp with tears and distressed sweat. Ever organised, Liam reaches for some kitchen roll and hands that to Louis, making him let out a watery chuckle, but gratefully take it. Liam’s thumb rubbing circles into his collarbone is calming.

“You need to sleep.” he suggests quietly “You’ll feel better once you’ve sobered up.”

Louis nods, despite them both knowing that he’ll probably have the hangover from hell and the bruising might get worse before it gets better. He slowly stands, grimacing when his stomach treats him to a reminder of the kick, and declines more of Liam’s help. He’s done more than enough already. Louis turns around after a few steps and hugs him tightly.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” he answers when they part from their embrace and there’s something shy in his eyes, like he didn’t think he’d get such gratitude, “When one’s down, the others pick up the slack, right? It’s what friends do.”

As Liam switches off the lights downstairs, Louis passes out in his room fully clothed and on top of the covers the second his head hits the pillow.

\---

Louis wakes with a start, something akin to the falling sensation when you’re halfway towards sleep. He licks his lips with a frown, momentarily forgetting about the night’s events and his injuries until he realises that his eye might as well be stitched together for all he can see out of it. He rolls off his stomach (another bad idea) to lie on his back. He tries to get comfortable and even scrambles under the duvet this time, but his aches and pains seem determined to already make life as difficult as possible. The beginnings of his hangover join in too, insistently tapping at his brain.

He remembers vague snatches of his dreams, pieces that are skewed and embellished nearly beyond all recognition apart from its themes. There was blood, a lot of blood, so much blood it looked like a surreal river around his knees. Buildings appeared from nowhere, only to be gone the next. He was high, he was falling, he was staring up, he was staring down and his phone was ringing off the hook, a constant stream of calls he never answered. A topsy-turvy world that didn’t make much sense besides the obvious thought that dreams like that – _nightmares_ – were weird and terrifying. 

With an exhausted sigh, Louis heaves himself silently out of bed. He looks at the closed door then the window with its curtains that haven’t been drawn yet. It’s still the dead of night, so he chooses to shut them, but not before taking a peek outside. In the back of his mind, he’s hoping to see Harry stumbling down the street, drunk and happy, but everything is as quiet as when Louis came back. Almost every light inside the houses are out, cars are parked, and only the bravest people would dare to walk home now with only the yellow streetlamps for company. Louis lets the corner of the curtain go and his eye catches the slightly haphazard, _normal_ state of Harry’s made bed, not slept in since their night at the club. He knows Harry would hide his worry or disapproval if he saw Louis was upset enough on his own, instead making a joke of how his looks are ruined for the foreseeable future and what else has he got to back it up. He misses the quips and the pranks and general hijinks of them being joined at the hip, midnight whisperings in their room when everyone else is fast aleep. It makes Louis crave company, but the right kind of company this time, and he quietly goes downstairs to watch TV until he feels sleepy again.

The closer he gets to the living room, the clearer he hears the low hum of the television already on and rounds the corner to see Zayn almost identically where he’d been when Louis had come back drunk and beat up. He doesn’t acknowledge Louis when he slides into the space beside him and Louis realises how it’s going to be, how Zayn’s trying to cope by not saying a word, maybe fearful that he’ll say too much or the wrong thing altogether. Louis can definitely relate and it has him wondering whether Zayn’s more worried about Harry than he’s letting on. They stare at the TV in silence, the colourful sights and sounds of what looks to be an old episode of _Power Rangers_ quietly washing over them as a woman at the bottom of the screen tries her best to act out the storyline in sign language.

Louis glances at Zayn and he’s still resolutely staring straight ahead, the images flashing onto the lenses of his glasses. Louis wishes he’d brought his downstairs too because his head feels ready to explode and he’s down to one fully functioning eye. Louis sighs and Zayn stiffens next to his shoulder. He knows if he wants them all to stick together that he has to get this over with. He shifts so that his body is turned towards Zayn with his knee pressed against the other boy’s thigh and elbow on the top of the sofa to prop up his head in his hand. Their gazes eventually lock and Zayn must see some of what he wants to see in Louis’ face because they both let out a breath they didn’t realise they were holding and Zayn offers up his lap with an open gesture. Louis grabs it like a lifeline, hoping he’s ready to talk for his sake, their sake, even Harry’s sake. He puts his head on Zayn’s legs and closes his eyes completely when he feels fingers slide slow and gentle into his hair. It’s supremely comforting, although it achingly reminds him of how he would do this for Harry too, especially when he was upset. Zayn’s more perceptive than any of them probably give him credit for.

“So. Tonight...? Hate to say it,” Zayn starts and Louis almost smiles at how _not_ sorry he sounds, “but you aren’t looking pretty right now.”

“Are you saying I usually do?” 

“We’re in a boyband. It’s like a given or something.”

Zayn stops stroking through his hair and Louis nearly whines in protest if he didn’t nudge him in the shoulder to tell him he’s being serious and not to change the subject. Louis turns onto his back, a quiet gasp falling from his lips that makes him poke at his stomach to assess the damage. He looks down briefly, sees how red his skin is, like he’s been hit over and over with a strong hand. He’s a little glad it was just one kick, hopeful that he’ll just be sore for a few days.

“I got caught in the women’s toilets. With some bloke’s trophy wife. Who turned out to be a woman of the street.”

Louis raises his eyes when Zayn doesn’t say anything immediately and thinks _shit, it’s stupid but it’s not that bad_ until he sees the blank expression.

“A lady of the night...” he prompts to no avail. “For fuck’s sake, a prostitute!”

“Oh. Shit. I thought that’s what you meant. You might be riddled.”

“Oi!” Louis protests, digging his elbows into Zayn’s lap as revenge as he sits up, “I didn’t actually get to sleep with her. But even if I had – don’t judge. You’re not exactly squeaky clean yourself.”

“I think you’re confusing me with Harry.”

It’s clearly meant to be a light, throwaway remark, the kind of banter they all have together, but considering the circumstances, it causes them both to pause awkwardly.

“Don’t tell Liam,” Zayn adds, eyes returning tellingly to the TV where the credits to the episode are rolling, “but I’m starting to wish we knew where he was. This is getting a bit weird. Do you think he’s in trouble?”

“Honestly?” Louis asks, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa to sit up properly again, “I don’t know. He’s not the type, is he? But he’s obviously gone...somewhere. I just want to find him, y’know? And we can’t do that alone. I think it’s time we let everybody know what’s really going on down here.”

Zayn looks like he might call Louis mad for opening a can of worms or something that turns out to be nothing at all. He’s clearly thinking about what their manager and record label will say; how they could possible tell Harry’s family that he’s not where they think he is, not to mention the fans. In the end though, he decides to agree as he pushes Louis’ hair back again and lets him rest against his shoulder.

“Okay, mate.” he whispers to help them both believe it’s the best – the right – thing to do, “Okay.”


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi! It's that time again. I'm happy to say you'll get a few answers in this chapter! Hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> (PS. YES I AM PSYCHIC ABOUT NOUIS AND THEIR CUDDLES.)

After what feels like hours upon hours of sleeping and aching, Harry takes to letting his mind truly wander in between spells of half-awake boredom. First of all, he thinks of the obvious helpless situation he finds himself in and how he can get out of it. He knows every top level corner of the decrepit warehouse by now, having stared at the concrete and wood and split wires for a long time. He doesn’t have his watch on him, so can’t tell how long exactly, but the space of the doorway always tells him when its day or night. Unless he’s missed something through the tedium, it’s been at least twenty four hours since he was with any of the lads. You could do a lot in twenty four hours. Have a shower, eat, do something resembling work and then maybe have some downtime to relax, whether that was a cosy night in or a wild night out. Harry is at least starting to miss being clean and full from food. He’s scared too, but he keeps trying to squash it and remove the fear from his face. Being stuck here is was also seriously boring. _When_ he gets out of here - because he still needs to remain as positive as possible – he’s never ever going to say he's bored again! This is cold, often dark monotony. It’s not like the cronies who usually guard the doorway in some way actually say a word to him. He guesses that like his work is making music with his best friends, they’re just here to do their job. It’s a horrible one, but maybe they’re scared of standing up for themselves too. In a twisted way, Luka’s visits break the never-ending cycle.

However, as Luka’s name and face pops into Harry’s head, his jaw sets and his eyes harden. It’s the only way he knows how to cope. The adrenaline used to keep him on edge and alert, almost ready to attack if Luka showed even just a chink in his armour, as silly as that sounds. Now, as the hours tick by, it’s drained out of him and that scares Harry a lot. He’s heard of Stockholm Syndrome and desperately doesn’t want that to happen to him, to start identifying or feeling misplaced sympathy for the one person who has all the control of him being here. In reaction, his mind has chosen a darker route. Every time exhaustion tries to pull him under, Harry’s mind clings to Luka until his eyes are open. His thoughts become like nightmarish fantasies playing out in front of him, of ways to make sure he leaves no matter the cost. He said he’d kill him until it’s all he can think about when he’s not too tired to resist fitful, awkward sleep. Harry’s never considered himself a violent, aggressive person, preferring to shoot down with words rather than fists, but sometimes he sees himself standing over Luka’s body and he’s not moving. To him, Luka’s not being sneaky, he’s actually killed him. Sometimes his eyes are closed, sometimes they’re open and when they are Harry knows that glassy-eyed look. He’s definitely dead. There’s blood of course, blood that Harry can _taste_ so vividly because Luka’s punched him in the face once too often to open up the wound again. He’s getting tired of that and thinks deliriously about his nose and his face in general and whether he’ll become so damaged that people won’t want to look him in the eye anymore. 

Back towards his thoughts, Luka’s blood can be on Harry’s hands and sometimes on his clothes, on other parts of his body, depending on how hard the fatal blow towards him is and if his cronies have decided they want some too. These are constants, but his weapon of choice frequently changes. Maybe as some sick, idle entertainment, like the impossible to answer question of “how would you like to die?” He’s had a brick, a knife, a gun and even a spear. In his daydreaming, his weapon always appeared out of thin air. The spear was crazy, but no less satisfying, thrown almost without thought from Harry’s hand and straight into Luka’s forehead, trapping him against the nearest wall and ending his life in the blink of an eye. The gun too, a long range blood splatter that held the echoes of his heavier, panicked breathing and not much else. The brick and the knife were always harder to stomach and yet that didn’t seem to stop his head from repeating the moments over and over, his hands wet and shaky as the brick went into the side of Luka’s skull until he lay there motionless or the gouges of the knife stabbed into his flesh before blood oozed out of his mouth and Harry’s tears dripped onto his ripped chest. 

Maybe it’s a way of keeping the fight in him burning until the time when he’s physically capable of running for his life but, the bizarre thing is, sometimes he doesn’t make it out alive either. Perhaps one of Luka’s men acts in revenge and that’s it, collapsing next to his captor and lights out. When he wants to stop his morbid thoughts for a while, he turns to the boys and on rare occasions, even if he’s hurt, he’ll feel a hand at his shoulder to roll him over and see a blurry outline of hair and a human face. He’d know that face anywhere. He knows Louis wouldn’t want him to wish someone dead, much less kill them himself, and the guilt distracts him long enough to feel in control again. Calming down also makes him realise that he’s thirsty. It’s not like Luka or one of his men doesn’t take essential care of him, but it’s usually giving with one hand and taking away with the other. A punch or a kick for a drink, so that often the lingering taste that Harry’s left with is the copper tang of blood. He’d kill for a beer and then wants to laugh because he’d kill just to be free. He wants to go back more than a day, go out with the lads in Brighton and stay with them, never noticing Freya dancing in a corner or Luka’s quick silhouette.

With a sense of longing that makes his chest ache, Harry remembers another time he and the boys drank together and tried to have a good time. It was a few days after Louis had split from Hannah. It was an expected challenge to get him to agree, his mind switching to autopilot to do the necessary like work but not much else. They were doing a few gigs here and there, getting their name back out into the public consciousness, but their times was mostly filled with jumping from country to country to begin writing and recording their debut album. Perfect, Harry thought, when they’d been in London for one night and all they’d done in their hotel rooms was communally watch TV or aimlessly surf the internet. He couldn’t stand it anymore; he needed to be proactive in shaking off everyone’s slight dip into tiredness and Louis’ unbearable quiet.

Throwing the TV remote down beside him, Harry heaved a loud sigh and snuggled up against Louis on the twin bed they’d congregated on until sleep. He saw nothing in putting his head on his best friend’s shoulder and held in his smile when Louis’ hand moved once through his curls in a silent hello and acceptance.

“We should go out,” he said, after a few moments of neither movement nor speech.

“Out?”

Harry lifted his head and grinned at Louis’ frowning expression, “Yeah, out! Go somewhere and get drunk. _Party_.”

He poked Louis in the stomach but, thinking his bright coaxing would help, faltered a little as Louis’ face didn’t change and he shied away from the quick touch.

“I’m not really in the mood, Haz. Sorry.”

“Exactly.” Harry sat up and twisted around so that he was cross legged in front of Louis, “You need to _get in_ the mood. It’ll take your mind off it. Her.”

“She does have a name and you can say it. I won’t cry or anything.”

“Are you sure?”

Louis blinked at him then smacked his cheek lightly, Harry laughing instantly and Louis’ lips twitching despite himself. Harry leaned forward and rested their foreheads together, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t get cross-eyed or uncomfortable.

“We could call the others or it could be just you and me, I don’t care.” he said, feeling Louis breathing lightly against him, listening, “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

Louis sighed, “She was my first love, but I had to – I had to – ”

Harry squeezed his shoulders, interrupting, “I know. Cruel to be kind and all that and you’re still friends. Friendship counts for something. Right?”

No sooner had they sat upright, Louis caught Harry around the back of his neck and pulled him in for a hug where their crossed legs were in the way but it was no less perfect and exactly what he needed. Harry gripped him that little bit tighter, communicating that he was there to be needed and leaned on.

“Yes.” Louis whispered into his ear, his nose brushing Harry’s cheek as they broke apart, “It counts for a lot.”

Feeling like they’d had another one of their heart-to-heart moments, Harry was almost prepared to leave it at that when he caught sight of the mini bar behind him. He looked back at Louis with a burgeoning twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Louis smiled, never one to miss out on hearing a new idea, whatever his other emotions were doing to him.

“Forget going out. We should raid the mini bar instead.”

“Paul’d kill us.”

“I know.” Harry grinned mischievously then dropped his gaze as Louis fiddled in his pocket, “What’re you doing?”

“Calling the others.”

Harry lifted his arms into the air in triumph and reached to mess up Louis’ hair, Louis only successful in dodging half of his attempt. Harry laughed and jumped off the bed as his elder rolled his eyes, pushed his hair away and called in the rest of the troops.

-

Half an hour later and it was clear that mini bar really did mean mini drinks. The bottles were steadily piling up and Liam kept eyeing them as if he could mentally calculate just how much trouble they’d be in tomorrow. He wasn’t getting involved in what he thought might be a pity party for their oldest bandmate, but Zayn and Niall had no such qualms. Niall was leaning next to the open cabinet, probably to keep himself from passing out, and giggling more than usual. Zayn was trying to disrupt what seemed to be Louis and Harry using Harry’s twin bed as a very bad trampoline, catching at their ankles to try and make them trip and fall. When that didn’t work much, he moved on to yanking at their clothes, falling backwards every time they laughingly shoved him away. Mid jump, Zayn went for the jugular and caught hold of Harry’s trousers. He kicked out on a reflex and swayed closer into Louis, hitting Zayn in the mouth and the forward momentum sending him and Louis tumbling down onto the bed together.

“Ow! Ow! My rib!” Louis crowed as Harry’s flailing elbow knocked into the side of his neck with considerable force.

Harry cackled loudly, lifting his head from where he’d finally planted his face onto Louis’ heaving chest, “That’s your neck, you idiot! _This_ is your rib!”

They giggled as Harry tickled him and both tried to avoid another array of limbs in unfortunate places. Amidst the ruckus, Zayn appeared from the floor with a bloody mouth and smacked his hand against Harry’s foot that was hanging nearest him.

“You hit me!”

But Harry couldn’t or wouldn’t listen, not over Louis shouting for him to stop his attack because he was too old to be tickled to death. Evidently too much excitement for him, Niall had indeed called it quits and fallen asleep, his face flushed from his earlier amusement and Harry and Louis looked slightly unkempt from their fight and the alcohol in their veins. Liam sighed and hauled Zayn up to his feet by hands under his arms.

“Should really you drink, mate,” Zayn slurred in confusion to him, poking him in the nose.

“Not tonight.” Liam said amiably and dragged him into the bathroom to take care of his injury.

With the room suddenly quiet, Louis and Harry calmed until they were simply lying all over each other, Harry’s head on Louis’ chest and their feet tangled. With the arm that wasn’t clutching Harry’s body to him, Louis drained the last of his current bottle – he guessed it was vodka – and dropped a kiss to Harry’s hair.

“I _so_ loved her, okay?” Louis half-asked, blinking up at the spinning ceiling.

“Yep.” Harry agreed sleepily, energy completely leaving him because he’d drunk way too much.

“Okay. Love you too. BFF...high...five...”

Letting his eyes fall shut, Harry felt Louis’ palm sloppily hit his so he did the only thing that seemed to make sense at the time and linked their fingers as he pressed his lips over Louis’ t-shirt-covered heart. The next morning Harry barely remembered anything except for Louis’ smile, but if that was all he got then really it was mission accomplished.

Although he feels guilty for his thoughts on Luka because he doesn’t fancy sinking to his psychotic level and it hurts to think of anything connected to his life ‘out there’, the after-image of Louis’ smile makes Harry now want to stay strong. It’s a comfort, something good that he can hold onto until he can get out and see it again for real, see everyone and tell everyone he loves and appreciate them. 

If only he knew how.

\---

Walking into the Sony Music building on Derry Street is still an odd, somewhat daunting experience. Its big enough to still feel imposing and, as they’ve only been there a handful of times, it’s largely unfamiliar. The dark doors seem like the only thing left from when the building was something other than an umbrella corporation for record companies, the entryway then opening into maximum light towards the reception. After being left with small security in Brighton, tour manager Paul meets them by the entrance and initially Louis doesn’t see anyone else until a sharp nudge from Niall makes him look up from his feet. Stood next to Paul are Magee and Richard, dressed in suits and their eagle eyes trained on them the second they climb out of their car. The boys actually mutually decided to refer to one of their managers as Magee once they realised that he and Harry shared a first name. It was just easier that way, especially when they were in the same room.

Louis swallows nervously. The fact that he could technically refer to Magee as Harry today and that there won’t be any confusion makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and his heart start to thud. Suddenly, he’s hit with a wave of guilt, wondering if he – _they_ – should’ve called this meeting sooner. Harry’s been...gone (Louis’ brain still refuses to say “missing”) for over twenty four hours. As if he didn’t feel like shit to begin with. He knows that’s mostly his own fault, which is why he put on his Ray Bans that morning before going down to breakfast and trying to act like his senses the previous night hadn’t taken leave.

He gazes anywhere but at the three men as everyone gives a group greeting of some sort. The air is filled with an almost puzzled tension because nobody really knows the breadth of what’s going on, although Louis probably knows the most, considering he was the one to call Paul and explain why they needed to get back to London and could he ask management to track down Simon. It doesn’t take long for them to at least clock the injury to Louis’ lip and the edges of the bruises hidden mostly by his sunglasses. There’s not a ray of sunshine in sight on what is a grey, slightly damp morning in the capital but he keeps repeating to himself that he’s in ‘popstar’ mode to ironically feel a little less ridiculous.

“What happened to you?” Paul asks with a frown.

Louis scratches the back of his head, reluctant to have this conversation on the street. Luckily before he can answer at all, Niall starts to fidget and Liam makes a show of peering at his watch.

“Shouldn’t we go in? We don’t want to be late.”

Louis can feel four pairs of eyes trained on him (three in front and Niall at his side, obviously curious about his response too) but he won’t break. Not now, not here. Ever the business heads, Magee and Richard nod curtly in agreement and everyone files into the building and up to reception. Once an arrangement to see their A&R man has been agreed, they’ve signed in and been through security, the ride in the lift is just as weirdly quiet. Louis’ never let that fact stop him before, usually chatting away amiably enough, but he also knows when it’s an okay time for it and this isn’t it. He squints behind his sunglasses when the doors ping open and they’re hit with daylight coming through the many glass panels around the building. He waits for everyone to leave, appearing gracious but really just trying to prolong the inevitable. Of course he wants to know of Harry’s whereabouts and knows the sooner that they get the ball rolling the better. The questions that he knows will come and the fact that Niall is the most clueless makes him hang back a little, grabbing Niall’s wrist as he goes to follow everyone down the corridor.

“What – Louis?” Niall asks, surprised, as Louis leads them along a side corridor, “Where are we going? What about the others?”

Instead of answering, Louis pushes down the handle of the first door they come across and pulls Niall in with him. He takes a cursory glance around, recognising that they’re in an empty conference room then turns to the blonde. He opens his mouth but Niall wrenches his arm away and raises an eyebrow. Hurt crosses Louis’ face momentarily before he sighs miserably.

“You’re probably still wondering what went down last night...”

Niall puts his hands in the pockets of his hooded top and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, “Actually I was wondering why you got me in here but yeah, okay that too. And why you sound like a bad American gangster.”

Louis blinks at him for a second then reaches to shove at Niall’s shoulder when he sees him start to smile. It breaks the slight awkwardness and Louis can’t resist the infectious nature of his friend’s burgeoning laugh, returning the gesture until the stretch to his split lip makes him grimace. Niall stops immediately, blue eyes large and worried.

“Is that why you won’t take those off?” he asks softly, pointing to Louis’ sunglasses firmly stuck over his eyes.

“Yeah, well. Y’know. I actually look _even manlier_ now and I didn’t want every girl here to fall at my feet. It’s best I keep these on.” he says eventually, forcing brightness into his voice.

“Lou – ”

“Nialler,” he warns tightly, as he rubs at the blonde’s shoulder, “just - just give me a cuddle, yeah?”

After some hesitation of not wanting to be won over so easily, Niall does as what’s asked of him and wriggles into Louis’ embrace. Louis squeezes him closer and for longer a little more than usual, hoping it’ll give him strength for what’s to come.

“I was stupid that’s all.” he whispers into his hair, “Got into a fight I had no chance of winning. I’m sorry you had to see me in such a state. Won’t happen again.”

He breathes out as they pull away from each other, grabbing Niall’s hand when he’s ready to lead them out. They find Liam and Zayn sat around the corner, waiting to go in. Louis guesses that Magee and Richard are laying the foundations of bringing Syco’s A&R man, David, up to speed. Liam stands when Louis and Niall approach.

“Where did you disappear to?”

Louis puts his arm around Niall’s shoulders and chuckles, “Making up.”

At that moment, the door in front of Liam and Zayn opens and Paul steps out. He waves them in, touching their backs in a gesture of comfort as they each walk past him and into the room. The A&R man, David, is sat in front of his desk whilst the boys’ management team are sat off to the side on one of the sofas. David looks to be at least in his thirties, of medium build with short sandy coloured hair and a rather pronounced nose. He’s only in his shirtsleeves, possibly to look more relaxed and amiable as his suit jacket hangs on a coat stand to the left of him and a filing cabinet. Opposite his desk is four chairs and he tells them with a smile to take a seat. Louis blinks at the chair nearest him as the others wordlessly sit down. _Four_ chairs. There are reminders everywhere now that Harry isn’t with them and the need to get it all out in the open propels Louis to take a deep breath and finally sit down too, ready to talk.

“So,” David says, making them all realise that he’s actually American as he folds his hands together and leans forward slightly, “What can I do for you? Paul, Harry and Richard said you wanted to talk to the label about something,”

Louis opens his mouth but his voice doesn’t sound anything like him, another accent in fact, and he takes a second before he realises that he’s been interrupted by Niall, “Harry’s missing.”

Louis slides his arm across the back of Niall’s chair next to him, touches his shoulder briefly and looks towards David, sunglasses still doing an okay job in obscuring his face. “We don’t know that for sure, but one of our bandmates, Harry, hasn’t come home in twenty four hours and I - _we_ ’re - getting worried.” He then turns his attention to management, “Did you get hold of Simon?”

“Has he done this before?” David asks and he studies Louis’ face as he returns his gaze to him, obviously curious about the injuries and why he sounds tired and a little hoarse. _Hungover_.

Louis waits a second, in case someone else wants to jump in. When it seems that the others have silently designated him as their spokesman, he shakes his head, “No, never. Why?”

He can feel Zayn staring at his profile from beside Niall, but knows he won’t stop asking why people need to know certain things, whoever they are and especially when it involves Harry. He’s never going to be rude about it, just firm because now they’re here he’ll be damned if they’re going to walk out without a plan of action. He tells himself that he’s done the right thing. This is potentially big, so the record label should know, Simon should know.

Instead of answering, David stands, displaying his tall height, and perches himself comfortably on the corner of his desk so that he’s facing the boys. He picks up the phone and murmurs a few words. Louis looks down at his jiggling knee, willing it to stop, how Zayn and Liam are sat unusually ramrod straight and Niall is busy biting his non-existent fingernails. Even though he’s obviously quite happy to do it in front of them, it feels like David’s conversation shouldn’t be eavesdropped on and Louis tries to ignore him until he presses a button and puts the receiver back in the cradle.

“Simon?”

“David, hello.” comes a very familiar voice on speakerphone.

Louis glances nervously at his friends and takes back his arm from Niall’s chair. Even when he’s not there in person, Simon has that sort of presence that makes you want to please him.

“Sorry to pull you away from your work, but I’ve got One Direction in my office.”

There’s a pause and then, “What have they done?”

Louis can’t help it; he snorts with laughter and immediately smacks his hand over his mouth. Slight embarrassment gets overtaken by the guilt for even laughing in the first place. Everything has an edge to it, like nobody’s supposed to be happy because something about their lives is incomplete and so very wrong.

Saving him whether consciously or not, David chuckles, “It’s nothing of that nature. They’re worried about Harry. He hasn’t been seen in roughly twenty four hours. Harry Magee and Richard Griffiths are here from Modest if you’d like to speak to them privately.”

“Twenty four hours?” he says, surprised and Louis winces, knowing what’s to come, “Why wasn’t this dealt with sooner?” 

David looks to the four of them for an explanation to a very good question. 

“Simon, its Louis,” he clears his throat and leans forward, “I was going to, but...”

He turns to his friends again, hesitating putting the blame anywhere because of how utterly worried they are is written across all their faces in their own ways. It’s dawned on them that this probably isn’t just Harry being Harry. He stands up and talks directly to David, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I got this yesterday whilst we were at the studio in Brighton. It’s a text from Harry.” he passes his phone to David who reads the message. Louis puts his arms around his body, hugging himself. “I don’t know how I know,” he lies, “but that doesn’t sound like Harry. It’s not him. I – ” he takes a final deep breath and speaks the words he’s feared since Harry never came home. “I think he’s in trouble.”

For some reason, his statement seems to shatter the previous awkward quiet and murmured chatter begins to fill the room, apart from Louis and David.

“Okay,” Simon says then, slow and careful, and everyone hushes, “Based on what you just told us all, Louis, I think now is the time to call the police. What’s your opinion, David? Harry? Richard?”

David sees Magee and Richard nod in agreement and picks up the phone once more, effectively ending the speakerphone part of the conversation. Louis sits down for lack of anything else to do and feels a strange sense of exhaustion. Niall grabs his hand and links their fingers, something none of them do as often as Louis sometimes has fun implying. He’s grateful for it now though and squeezes back. As David talks over the finer details with Simon, Louis suddenly feels a different kind of scared. A new set of questions pile up and he knows they’re all going to need strength to find out the answers. Soon after it’s decided that they should either see the police at Sony or at Scotland Yard, everyone thanks David for his help and starts to leave. Louis’ feet falter when he’s the last of the boys out and he hears David say his name. He turns his head, his hand planted on the outside of the door but most of his body still inside the room.

“Could we maybe have a word with you alone?”

Louis sees the confused faces of his bandmates disappear as he shuts the door and turns to the adults left.

“You can sit down again, if you like.” David offers, with the same smile he’d given them all earlier.

Louis mentally shrugs and walks back over to him, sitting straight and still with his hands resting flat on his thighs. Paul, Magee and Richard stay silent. David repeats his move, leaning against his desk but this time folding his arms.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

Suddenly wary, Louis mirrors David’s position and defensively folds his arms in front of his chest, “Like what?”

“Like how you got those injuries to your face?” he replies, not missing a beat. However, he seems to have more questions before Louis can lie. Nobody outside the lads really needs to know the details of a drunken night out gone wrong. “You and Harry are close, right? Did you...argue the last time you saw each other?”

Louis’ immediate reaction is to say No, but then he has a proper think about it and remembers his and Harry’s last conversation. They were in that club in Brighton, Harry seemed tetchy about some girl who was flirting with Louis and stomped off again before he could stop him. Hardly argument of the century, hardly an argument at all really, but he _was_ the last person to see Harry. The way that David’s staring at him seriously makes everything click into place in Louis’ head.

“This,” he boldly takes his sunglasses off for the first time that morning and appreciates the fact that everyone remains quiet and David’s expression is neutral, “has got nothing to do with Harry. We didn't fight. We’re not like that, ever. _I’ve_ got nothing to do with Harry not coming back to us. This is my own fault; I made a stupid mistake and paid the price for it.”

“Okay.” David nods slowly after a while. He looks up sharply after his finger gently prods one of the executive toys to work on his desk. “But be prepared for me not to be the last person to ask you about it.”

Louis understands that he means _the police_ , especially if things move quickly from today. Following another moment of contemplation as everyone can be sure that they’re all on the same page with no harsh secrets between them, Louis is dismissed. However, when he gets to the door, it’s like déjà vu upon hearing his name spoken. He turns wordlessly to see David wearing a bigger smile.

“Get some more ice on that eye. Looks painful. Oh and Louis,” he adds with a proper grin, “Maybe you should invest in some makeup. Or think of a great lie. The last thing we need is the paparazzi catching you looking like that in public.”

He manages a half smile in response, brightening a smidgen when he sees that Paul is amused and they each know exactly what he’d rather do (make up a convincing story, of course). Louis opens the door fully and at last walks through it, falling straight into the group embrace of his waiting friends.

\---

Although he previously acknowledged that his exchanges with Luka were like a mental change of scenery from the long stretches of boredom, Harry inwardly sighs as he hears the increasingly familiar pattern of footsteps he’s already got to know in the last twenty four hours as Luka steps through the doorframe. He starts casually pacing in front of Harry, hands behind his back, as if he has no intention of striking up a conversation. Frustrated, Harry attempts to speak but is halted by the gag. He grunts, even more irritated now, and struggles around as much as he can until Luka chooses to notice him. It usually doesn’t work, so Harry thinks he must have an ulterior motive because he strides towards him and roughly pulls the gag down to his chin.

“What?”

However wary that probably anything can be used against him, Harry opens his mouth to speak. His voice is starting to get a little hoarse, but his expression is narrow-eyed, almost sneering, “Aren’t you bored of coming here already? What’s to see?”

“Oh, but it’s _so much fun_ , Harry.” he smiles with an amused shake of the head.

From his crouched position, Luka stands upright and carefully walks to the side edge of the pillar. Harry tries to follow him with his eyes until his restraints pull painfully at the movement of his immobile muscles and has to make do with his peripheral vision, Luka’s largely unseen presence making the nerves builds to new heights. He hears Luka’s voice next to his ear as he leans down.

“You’re starting to sound ill, Harry. Are you feeling okay? Need a drink?”

When the moment has arisen, Harry hasn’t refused this offer yet, although it’s usually carried out by whoever’s standing guard at the door. Suspicious, he silently shakes his head.

“No? Are you sure? Come on now, I am treating you well after all.”

Harry’s eyes widen in disbelief as he feels the urge to gesticulate wildly towards his tied up situation, but ultimately knows that won’t do any good. Instead, he blows his hair out from his eyes and simply stares him down.

“Okay,” Luka nods, getting back to his thoughtful pacing, “How about this – you can drink if you promise to stop your whining? No more thrashing about, no more pushing your luck. Be good, Harry. That’s all I ask.”

His mouth feels like a desert has been misplaced and decided to park itself right on his tongue, like sand is pouring down his throat and his own survival instinct forces him to wordlessly and begrudgingly agree before it’s too late and he angers Luka or any of his cronies to the point of no return.

“Good.” Luka murmurs and Harry briefly shuts his eyes, feeling horrid to the core.

When he looks again, Luka has a bottle of water in his grasp and Harry can’t help but be transfixed as his fingers screw the top open. His desires are quickly narrowing until they fall on two sides, the immediacy of water and how to stay alive another hour or the big one – the wish to be set free. He feels like a caged animal when Luka holds the bottle to his lips and angles it upwards for him, the relief of cool wetness making him drink and drink and drink. Unfortunately, halfway through, something seems to snap and Luka loses his generosity as quickly as it arrived at dizzying, confusing speed as he throws the remaining water in his face. He’s definitely keeping Harry off balance. His already damp, cold clothes get wet and Harry shivers uncomfortably as water drips off his nose and eyelashes, running down his cheeks so fast he has to blink furiously to clear his vision and the shocked gasp stuck in his chest. Maybe this is Luka’s plan all along, to weaken him until he can fight no more.

“Let’s give you a little test, shall we?” Luka then says, acting like he’s merely suggesting they go for a nice stroll.

Harry’s puzzlement increases as he feels hands pull the gag to his neck and start work on the rope tightly binding his wrists to the pillar behind his back. He tries not to fidget or say anything, bizarrely finding himself adhering to the deal made, if only to perhaps use it to his own advantage with time. Once he feels the ropes give, he pulls his arms to the front of his body. For a few moments, he _is_ too weak and disorientated to do anything but rub at the red burns and let his teeth chatter. However, he stops short when Luka looms over and grins down at him.

“Fight me.”

“What?” Harry frowns, clumsy fingers trying to button up the rest of his sodden shirt because he never got the chance.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear. I want to see if you can fight me. Something tells me I’m going to win.”

Trying to pull back any warmth possible, Harry reaches into his trousers pocket and although he knew something was there, he had forgotten that it would be socks. Suddenly, the balled up material reminds him of Louis and how he rarely wears socks. He stares at them in his palm before his fist clenches around them. He decides there and then that if this is what Luka wants then it’s what he’ll do – he’ll fight him. He’ll do it for himself, for Louis, for freedom. Ignoring the fact that they’re still damp and are probably useless, Harry slides the socks on his feet and shakily stands up. Well, it has to be better than no socks or shoes at all. Luka snorts with laughter, endlessly amused, and motions for Harry to come closer.

They begin to circle each other slowly, eyes locked. Harry looks over to the door, the first idea to escape in his head about two seconds after he was untied, but he won’t try yet. He’ll have to bide his time, catch everyone unawares. He steels himself and changes direction, watching Luka huff another breath of joy before he follows, waiting for the other to make the first strike. Besides the rough and tumble with friends, Harry’s very inexperienced in the art of combat so decides to just go with his instinct and react to whatever Luka’s about to do. Sensing that he has to force him, Luka smirks.

“They’re not coming for you y’know.” he murmurs in a low, teasing tone, “No one is. Your friends don’t know where you are, the police know jack shit. Do you really trust them to care about you enough to try?”

Harry clenches his fists rhythmically by his sides, his breathing more noticeable being the only effect that he’s listening. He licks his lips, drawing the last droplets of precious water in and feels the middle of his face largely numb with swelling. He knows even a simple punch will hurt and rip open present wounds.

“And Louis, how _stupid_ must he be if a silly little text is enough to put him at ease? Come on,” he chuckles when he sees the boy’s jaw set, “I asked you to fight me, so fight me. Or should I start looking elsewhere? Your friends? Perhaps pay this Louis a visit? Is he pretty, Harry? Could I do _more_ than rearrange his face?”

With a growl and eyes burning brightly, Harry lunges for him at last and swings his fist in the direction of the injury he caused Luka’s lower lip as he first tried to evade capture. Luka dodges out of the way, laughing, but doesn’t retaliate as he obviously wants to see what Harry’s made of. He tries again, kicking out with his foot to aim at the man’s shins too. Luka grunts and then ducks when an upper cut flies towards him. Harry sidesteps widely as he’s suitably distracted, coming up behind him with speed. His eyes flit between him and the door and he decides to run, thinking that Luka will probably expect him to attack again. Suddenly though, Luka twists when he’s on his way past and pulls Harry back by his hair, yanking hard to make him cry out from the sting and how it’s stopped him clean in his tracks. He staggers, knees’ bending as Luka’s pinched, angry scowl looks down at him.

“As if it would be that easy!” he spits, tugging on Harry’s hair once more as tears spring unwillingly to his eyes, “Have you learnt nothing? _No one_ ’s coming for you.”

Desperate, Harry elbows him in the chest to make him let go. It works but Luka’s reflexes are sharp and he punches with his own fist to great accuracy and satisfaction. The faraway door disappears from Harry’s vision as he blinks out from the pain and feels blood start flowing into his mouth. They both know it’s a weak spot and Luka hit it with pinpoint precision before following the move up with the slam of his knee into Harry’s kidneys, making him double over. Not finished and with his opponent considerably defenceless, Luka yanks Harry’s arm behind his back and pushes his foot onto his shoulder at the same time, forcing him to the ground as his muscles are stretched to their limit. When his shoulder is wrenched even further, Harry shouts loudly as the joint is dislocated. A push of his foot to Harry’s torso and he falls to his side on the damp concrete as he feels hard boots go into his stomach a few times and graze along his protective hands. He has to take a moment to roll around in the pain, to try and get past it with whimpers falling from his lips even when he stubbornly tells himself that he can’t - _won’t_ \- give up.

As he’s resting his temple against the concrete and breathing deeply to clear his hazy mind, Harry hears footsteps. Luka is still standing next to his body, so he realises it must be someone else. Despite the fact that it’s probably another one of his cronies, Harry’s heart jumps with hope that somehow its someone from the outside who has come to mount a rescue. He remembers his earlier occupying thoughts, of being down but not out as he saw the blurry outline of Louis’ face and a gentle hand to his shoulder. He closes his eyes, but opens them when the noise stops. He can indeed see more feet, but they’re not frenzied amidst a battle. They calmly come to stand beside Luka. Harry belatedly understands that he recognises the ankle boots and that they’re definitely female and paired with tights. Bright funfair lights flash behind his eyelids - _amusement arcade, fans, flirting_ \- before Harry blearily looks up to see Freya. His relief that she’s alright is brutally cut short as he watches Luka reach out to kiss her. Clinging onto his sanity, Harry reasons inwardly that maybe she’s being forced to play along, as another way to get at his head, until she puts her arm around Luka and deepens their lip-lock. Harry blinks feverishly, feeling a panic attack of confusion coming on because he realises, with a shocking bolt of clarity, that she lied to him. He shouldn’t have perhaps expected anything less from a virtual stranger, but the nature of the lie feels like another physical punch to the gut. He was led to believe that Luka was her _father_ when all along she was his...he was her...

With them together, it’s easy to see the rather sizeable age gap of at least fifteen years and although Harry’s really got nothing against those in general, the thought that he got himself mixed up in such a twisted, still largely unknown plan, makes him feel sick. They break apart as Luka spots Harry staring with every emotion crossing his sore face.

“Oh yes,” Luka grins and the fear crawls back over Harry like it had never gone away, “She’s my darling girl alright. And you’re going to pay for what you did to her.”

Harry turns his gaze to Freya, needing to hear the confirmation that this isn’t a terrible, perverse illusion, “You lied to me?”

She stares down at him, bleeding and weakened no doubt like her lover wanted, and says nothing. It’s all the answer Harry needs. She looks different, _cold_ , like she’s not really seeing him for who he is anymore. The chilling idea that he’s not the first and this isn’t solely about his burgeoning name in the celebrity world slithers uncomfortably down his spine. Luka smiles and touches Freya’s chin, to which she automatically focuses back on him. All her looks towards Harry were exactly like this, soft around the edges and he feels like a fool for being sucked in to the fake. 

“I’m so proud of you.” he hears Luka say to her, “Now you’d better go, princess. This is no place for a young lady.”

Trying to get his hands underneath to push himself up, Harry snorts derisively, “I thought you said she was – what was it? – ‘a greedy little slut’...?

It seems like Luka has ignored him as he kisses Freya goodbye, “Go.”

However, once she’s out of the door and before Harry can react quickly enough, Luka turns and forces another hard kick into his stomach. Harry’s dazed groan and whimper makes him laugh.

“Haven’t you heard of acting, Harry? She’s mine and always will be,” his expression melts into dangerous seriousness, “Talk about her like that again and I _will_ kill you without a second’s thought. You’re not worth more than her. Tie him up.”

Apparently tired of him, Luka points his men to Harry and they come forward, pulling him up too fast and careless for it not to hurt. He struggles to stand, his feet feeling useless and dragging on the ground as they carry him backwards by his arms and aren’t mindful of his injured shoulder. He tries to shake them off and tell them to leave him alone to no avail as they shove him against the pillar and set to work on his wriggling hands.

“You won’t get away with this!” he yells hoarsely to Luka’s calmly retreating back, spitting blood, “I’ll come for you eventually! When you fucking sleep if I have to! Are you deaf?” he snaps to the burly men, “Fuck _off_!”

He only stops talking coherently when the gag across his mouth is replaced.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to say that I will always be this slow updating this particular fic, but I've had a crap day, so here. Have some depressing fic.

The two police officers stand up, their eyes turned away for a moment from Louis as he sits in front of them. They look towards the open door and at what looks to be a nervous junior officer who’s just interrupted their chat with Louis. After a beat of silence following his fidgety entrance, one of the two others gives Louis a brief, polite smile.

“If you’d excuse us,” she says to include her male counterpart, “we’re working on a high priority case and...”

Louis feels his jaw clench as he nods tightly at her in acceptance, cutting her apologetic explanation off at the same time that her sentences seems to fade anyway. He wants to jump to his feet as they leave, protest that Harry should be “high priority” too, but he knows that they’ve barely scratched the surface of this yet and that the world doesn’t actually revolve around either him or Harry. 

Once he’s alone, he lets out a long, deep sigh to try and release the tension squeezing his chest. This part of his day, the part he had been dreading increasingly since their talk with David at Sony that morning, had actually been going alright so far, all thing considered. Then again, most of it had been a lot of waiting around and sitting in a surprisingly nice room. It was the kind that looked to be used for the victims of crimes rather than interrogation, even though Paul told him not to phrase it like that, like he’s being poked and prodded and then accused. Louis wonders if he’s a victim, whether the other boys are. Maybe Harry is too. Yet he still feels like he’s about to be hauled over the hot coals of the law once those police officers know of his recent catalogue of tiny mistakes that appear to have had some sort of terrible, disastrous consequences.

Despite being by himself, he hasn’t forgotten that everyone is right outside the door. They’ve been questioned by themselves and Louis’ no different. He supposes that’s a practice well used by the police to ascertain any possibility of fact from embellishment or deep-seated emotion or, at its worst, blatant lies. He takes to looking around the room, his interest vaguely piqued by the window opposite the sofa he’s restlessly sat on the edge of. He stands and walks towards it and knows it’s probably rationally a window anyway, but feels like he has to check it isn’t a one way mirror covered by blinds to make it look inconspicuous. He pokes his head through and Niall’s immediately shoots up like a meerkat as he senses movement, but Louis merely shows him the anxious straight line of what would otherwise be a smile and lets the blinds fall back into place.

He’s not sure how long he waits exactly (there’s been a lot of that today), but the two police officers do eventually return and bizarrely that’s when it hits Louis. He’s in a _police station_ with _the police_ and they’re about to ask him God knows what about Harry, what he knows of the situation and maybe even about the fact that he looks like he’s gone several rounds with some angry fists.

“So, Louis?” the female questions to make sure she’s remembered his name right, as she takes a seat in front of him with the low coffee table between them and her male partner next to her.

They already got the pleasantries out of the way before they’d been interrupted and Louis wordlessly nods his head, suddenly self conscious of what he’s saying or doing, despite knowing that they’d not want him to hold back in case anything he thought of was important. He feels under pressure and it makes him want to shy away again, to block it all out until Harry reappears. Something horribly dark in his gut tells him it won’t be that easy.

“What is your connection to Harry?”

“He’s – ” he tries to clear the roughness from his voice, “ – um, he’s my best friend.”

“And the young men out there?” she inclines her head to mean just outside the door where the other boys are sat.

“Are my best friends too,” 

Louis sees her smile a little and lean forward, as if conspiratorial, “They said much the same.”

“Police Constable,” speaks the male police officer for the first time since they sat down again.

It sounds like a warning to not get too familiar with their interviewee and her posture straightens as she gathers her thoughts once more.

“Louis, can you take us back to when you last saw Harry?”

Irrational panic lights up within him like a firework – _they know, they know I let him go then drank myself into a fight_ – before he blinks to see expectant expressions which tells him they don’t. He reaches up tiredly to rub at his eye, forgetting that it’s still quite swollen and definitely a raging red that will turn into proper bruising in the next few days. Both of the officers’ gazes seem to twitch, maybe with interest. Who is he kidding? _Of course_ it’s with interest. They’re trained to spot non-verbal clues as well and if a guy met him with a bruised face, he’d probably be curious as to how that happened too. He expects them to want to know all the gory details, but they gesture for him to answer the question they asked and suddenly the guilt of feeling selfish creeps back in.

“A couple of days ago, we were in Brighton – writing and recording some tracks for our album - ” he adds as an aside with a hint of pride, before they can ask him what they were doing there, “and, in the evening, we decided to go out for a few drinks. I lost him in the crowds.”

“Louis,” the female says firmly, “can you be more specific? How long did it take you to get separated? What happened to make you lose him?”

“Well, I was a bit tipsy,” he jokes weakly before he can resist then lapsing into seriousness lest he antagonise the very people he’s trying to help. “In all honesty, not much happened. We drank together then the five of us mutually decided to separate and explore for a bit. I went to the bar, with Niall, and Harry...”

“And Harry...?” she prompts as he takes a breath, clearly the designated interviewer of the two.

“He would disappear then come back, usually for another drink or just to have a good time with us. It was a perfectly normal night.”

“Does he often wander off by himself for long periods of time and tell no one where he’s going?”

Louis presses his lips together and clamps down on the swirl of emotions within him, unsure whether his eyes will fill or a humourless laugh will spill forth once he unclenches his fists from resting on his knees. Eventually, he settles for keeping things plain and simple, the cold hard facts. “No, never. Not while I’ve known him anyway. We like to stay close by each other.”

The female nods, processing each of Louis’ answers carefully as her partner jots things down in his pocket-sized notebook. “So my next question is, Louis, what changed? How ‘normal’ was this night?”

There it was – the opening for which he needed to reluctantly but importantly mention the girl he and the boys had seen Harry with in the distance. He hesitated anyway, the icy trickle of guilty doubt that he was about to maybe wrongly accuse someone else of foul play causing him to close his eyes and exasperatedly hold his palms close to his face. For a moment, it blocks everything out and there’s nothing but black behind his eyelids as he tries to breath deep. Then Harry’s face flashes in front of him and Louis blinks and feels dizzy for a split second at the change in light. His breathing may be under control, but his ribs feel like they’re shrinking, squeezing and squeezing and _squeezing_ his heart until he fears it might crumble into dust. It’s the push he needs. Apparently a physical attack is what he needs these days to get him to properly respond. He’d be worried about that if there wasn’t something else on his mind.

“I saw someone,” he blurts out, not quite how he wanted to but relieved that it’s now out there nonetheless, “with him. A girl. She was different from the others...”

Louis’ gaze falls from the people listening intently to him and to the floor as heat floods his cheeks. He’s confused by his own reaction. It usually has to be something truly mortifying to make him blush, but the way he remembers the girl – fitted dress and her thighs and the _intimacy_ she didn’t mind directing at Harry has him wondering if he’s betraying Harry’s trust in some way. After all, he doesn’t go running the papers every time Harry pulls a girl and maybe this is still all this is. Maybe Zayn was right. As he impatiently pushes his fringe away, Louis wishes for the umpteenth time that he could speak to the boys, to get an inkling on what they seemed to divulge so easily. _But you’re different_ , a small voice intones and, although he can’t quite get a handle on who it sounds like, he knows it’s familiar. _You have more to share. The possibilities are almost endless_.

As if sensing his sudden crisis of confidence, the female officer leans forward in her seat but doesn’t do more than that. Louis figures it’s against protocol or something, at least until they’ve gained all the information they need. Or maybe that’s what liaison officers are for, doling out contact and comfort whilst the bobbies on the beat try and solve the cases.

“You’re doing great, Louis.” she encourages softly with a ghost of a smile, “Tell us why this girl was different...?”

“She didn’t have to be all over him to get what she wanted.”

It’s out of his mouth before he’s even thought how to phrase the words and he’s surprised by the obvious bitterness and anger. To their credit, the officers delve deeper for the facts and pay his tone little mind.

“So, she was manipulative?” she clarifies, “Persuasive?”

“I...I don’t know. I guess.”

“Louis.” the male police officer demands his attention and he blinks, not used to him speaking directly to him. “Tell us exactly what you saw and what was said. Please.”

Swallowing as the “please” is offered as an obvious afterthought from a far more hard-nosed police presence, Louis drops his eyes to his feet again to better focus and concentrates on the carpet as he sees everything replayed in his mind from that fateful night.

“Harry was on the dancefloor. He went up to the girl, maybe he thought it was someone else, I don’t know. But then he seemed pleased anyway because he was with her for ages. I was at the bar with Niall and Harry came towards me, demanding to have a word with me. I didn’t really have a choice. He told me to be careful, seemed...on edge, like he’d seen something or someone he hated and that’s – that’s not like him. And that was it. He walked away from me and he’s never really done that before. I wish I’d done more, but I was too...” realising that it’s all spilling out at once in a ramble he hopes is somewhat coherent, Louis meets their eyes as he grapples for the right word, before he shrugs wearily, “any number of things – surprised, hurt and frustrated that he was being a bit of a hypocrite, but mostly just confused. It wasn’t a big fight or anything, but he doesn’t lash out like that at all, not to me. He’s too chilled for that. We don’t have that kind of relationship. That was the last time I, uh, saw him.”

A tense silence follows with only the scratching of a pen on paper barely audible then the female police officer looks a little awkward and Louis knows what’s coming. He braces himself, knowing he’s going to tell the truth, even if it’s just snippets of the actual story. 

“It was just words?” she asks, “You and Harry had a conversation and then he walked off? No fists involved?”

Louis debated flat out rubbishing the question, but the mere thought that Harry would raise his hand to anyone, let alone him as his best friend, made his insides twist into such a mess that he felt the need to point out Harry’s true character, to make them understand that he was only a possible victim in all this and it wasn’t some fucked up karma coming to bite him on the arse.

“He’s cooked for me before.”

It’s another unchecked titbit that falls from his mouth and the two officers blink at him, but wait to see if he’ll continue. Louis smiles slightly, what feels like the first one in a short while and it feels good. Thinking about Harry _feels good_.

“When we were in the,” he hesitates drawing attention to their situation at a serious time like this, so simply shrugs, “in the house. Not all the time, but it was...nice whenever it happened. He’s thoughtful like that. There’s never any drama with Harry, at least it doesn’t start from him. He’s a cheeky so-and-so too, but I like that. Sometimes I feel like I need it, almost. I guess that’s one of the reasons we are close. We bounce off each other like it’s supposed to be that way y’know? I can look at him and have a conversation with him without opening my mouth. Things are just...easy, so easy. Sorry,” he apologies suddenly, only now realising that neither of them have prompted further.

The female shakes her head, “No, it’s good. We needed to clear that up.”

Louis blinks at her, expecting more of an interrogation. “So you don’t want to know what happened to...?” he points to his face awkwardly.

“Is it relevant to Harry’s disappearance?”

He breathes a little deeper to rid himself of the temptation to be a smartarse towards the male police officer’s curt question and actually thinks about the answer. _Yes. No. Sort of. Is it?_ “No.” he settles on after a thoughtful beat, “Just got into a fight. Bit one sided really. I had no hope of coming out of it unscathed. Wish it hadn’t been the face though. Zayn would feel the same, but I’m not above admitting to being a bit vain. It’s part of my job these days...Sorry.”

The female looks at his sheepish expression and smiles faintly. “It’s fine. So, Harry. You think there’s a possibility he could still be with this girl?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to find her?” he blurts out, remembering her smile that now seems terrifyingly sly with every hour Harry is not around.

“We’ll want to talk to her, yes, as she was the last person to see Harry as far as we know. Now Louis, we need you to do a few things for us. We need you to describe the girl as detailed as you remember and then we need the same for Harry. It’d be best if we could have some photographs of him, so the rest of our team has something to refer back to.”

He wants to say _surely you already know what he looks like_ but immediately feels guilty for being so presumptuous. Besides, even if it was likely that they did, photographs in a file could be classed as evidence. So no one will forget. The female officer also listed a few other tools and formalities to get the ball rolling until one caught his attention.

“DNA?”

“Yes. If we find...” she pauses and Louis almost feels the way his face drains of colour. 

She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. If they find suspicious stains at the girl’s place or at the club or anywhere else Harry has been during their stay in Brighton, if they find a weapon or if they find something less disputable like...a body.

“Something like a toothbrush would be fine,” she remarks, her voice softer than it was a moment ago.

“Okay.” he answers, but he can’t help it, he’s distracted and this time he really doesn’t want to be.

“And the photographs – ”

“I’ll sort it.” he snaps and it seems to be what brings the colour back to his cheeks as well as his brain into the conversation, “Sorry. But leave it with me.”

“What about Harry’s family? Do you want us to contact them so they can help you?”

Louis feels his eyes widen in realisation and there’s suddenly only one word in his vocabulary that he’s thinking of.

 _Fuck_.

\---

When Harry first woke up in Freya’s bed, he hadn’t really connected the dots together. It wasn’t possible. She was just a girl he met in an amusement arcade and a club and he was the boy hopefully showing her a good time for the night. There was nothing wrong that, it had happened before, and there was certainly nothing untoward in the set up. It was more romantic comedy than the thriller it seemed to become. But lying awake at night and shutting your eyes against the slivers of light you’re no longer quite so used to can do strange things to your mind. He’s had the visions of death, of his captors and his own, but there can also be a startling amount of clarity. Like he knows with every fibre of his being that he thinks of and loves the boys like family now and he never wants to take that for granted. He knows that he’s as proud of his mum and sister as they are of him. He knows, with at least half certainty, that - before made Freya and Luka themselves known – he had been followed.

The quiet and the pain (in an effort to numb it by thinking of anything else) let him see that. The exact details are still fuzzy, but he remembers the day he actually confided in Louis like it was yesterday. Harry smiles. He knew he wouldn’t be judged by his best friend, whatever he said and however crazy it sounded. This was the bottom line why he stopped wrestling with the decision to tell him or not and simply come out with it.

“Lou,” he whispered tentatively, even though they were the only two in the living room at the time, “I think...I think I’m being followed.”

Sitting on the velvet green sofa that whilst slightly sunken in places was pretty comfortable, Louis shuffled his arm further along the back of the seat and taking that as his cue whether he meant it to be one or not, Harry moved closer until he was resting against Louis’ side. A hand slid into his curls, twirling those at the top of his head that didn’t seem to be as curly as others near his ears. It was like Louis was daring his hair to be even curlier and Harry found himself relaxing just from the touch.

Louis made a questioning sound, asking if they were still supposed to be talking about this without taking his eyes away from the television screen in the corner. Harry nodded, his cheek brushing his t-shirt covered chest and he felt the hand move from his hair to squeeze his shoulder.

“We’re always being followed, Harry.”

Harry knows that’s meant to be a comfort to him and if it was the truth it oddly would be, but he just has this feeling that it’s _not_. So he shook his head, maybe burrowing deeper into Louis’ body to find the warmth, to feel the comfort and the truth he suddenly craved. “I’m being serious,” he mumbled as the doubt reared its ugly head.

Louis froze and Harry actually felt his body stiffen underneath his ear. His heart didn’t know whether to sink in disappointment or speed up in panic, so it kept a deceptively steady pace despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to leave and take his worries elsewhere. He must have twitched a limb because in the next moment, Louis’ touch returned and was stronger than ever. His cheek was a warm weight on the top of Harry’s head, keeping him in his embrace instead of letting him entertain more thoughts of escaping. Luckily, he didn’t want to, especially when Louis gave him the words that meant he believed him.

“Have you seen anyone around that you don’t know looking shifty? For the record, I haven’t and you’re almost with me all day every day, so...”

Harry backed away from his arms eventually and turned his face towards him, putting his hands in the space left to support his position as he slowly shook his head again, “It’s just...it’s a feeling I get. Like there’s eyes on my back. I...I don’t like it.”

He thought he probably sounded whiny and pouty and like a baby, but Louis didn’t seem to see it like that and pulled Harry forward once more with a kiss to his forehead. “Its alright.” he said, faintly smiling when Harry raised his eyes to look into his, “I believe you, but there might be a simple explanation for this. Don’t make yourself paranoid. It won’t do you any good. And besides, anyone comes after you? They’ll have to go through me first.”

He grinned and Harry tried to return it, really, but the pitch of Louis’ voice made him oddly feel like he didn’t want to shatter the sudden peace he felt. It was a private tone, like how they were when they used to slip into each other’s beds at night in the X Factor house and talk for far longer than they should’ve, and it brought those fun memories back until Harry felt calm and relaxed and carefree again. Something told him Louis used _that_ voice on purpose. Quickly, there were words on his tongue and it was if he was about to say something ridiculous like _you have a hundred different voices_ (when in reality it was probably about five, but whatever) when – 

“Liam’s making dinner and I’m starving, so can we _please_ – oh put him down, Tomlinson!” Niall cackled suddenly as he stepped in from the hallway and started for the kitchen that they could see from their snuggled place on the sofa.

Harry blinked as Louis’ hand begun to pat his head and smooth his hair but Louis’ eyes were only playfully on Niall. “But I want him as my pet!” he fake pouted.

There was a clang from the kitchen as Niall opened an overhead cupboard and narrowly missed getting brained by a precariously balanced tagine pot. Harry snorted in amusement as much for that as for Louis’ comment, “Thanks a bunch.”

“I didn’t say what kind of pet, babycakes,” he winked back.

With the outlandish pet-name in use and the mischief in his eyes, Harry should’ve laughed it off like he had always done before or even better flirted outrageously in return, but for some reason he felt stuck. He blinked again, but slower, and Louis was still looking at him as if waiting for the usual response. 

“Hey.” This time it was Liam, as he had obviously come to take over and save Niall from death by clay dish. “You’d better vote quick on what we’re having for dinner before Niall decides for us all.”

Just like that, Louis’ arms disappeared from Harry and he watched dumbly as the other boy stood up, pulling at the waistband of his jeans even though they hadn’t moved an inch since he sat down. He turned and ruffled Harry’s hair with a knowing smile and his heartbeat decided that now was the time to kick up weirdly, even as Louis muttered laughingly, “I know what you want,” (meaning dinner, of course) and left Harry to lounge on the sofa. By himself.

Harry might’ve hoped that Louis would believe him and be supportive like he was, but the extra thoughts were unbidden. He doesn’t remember them happening or feeling them at the time, but recalling the memory now has them feel so real, so visceral and increasingly with all this time in the world on his hands, Louis is not just Louis anymore. He’s... _Louis_.

Harry shakes his head, feeling muddled, as damp curls stick irritably to his face. He wonders if this is what it’s like to truly miss someone and whether he’ll feel like this about the other boys soon. It’d be a lot less confusing if he did.

\---

_“Hello, this is Anne. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks, bye.”_

With his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Louis sighs anxiously and thinks about hanging up but somehow knows that that will just make her even more worried. When she finds out the reason for his call, she’s going to be worried enough.

“Hi Anne, its Louis.” he says, feeling strangely formal and like he’s leaving words for a stranger, not the woman that has almost become his mother’s best friend. “When you get this, could you give me a call back? Don’t – uh – don’t worry, just...call me, okay? Bye.”

Ending the call, he cringes immediately. Don’t worry? _Don’t worry_? Her son’s missing, possibly kidnapped, and he’s telling her not to worry? He feels like an idiot and the worst of it is he doesn’t know how to fix that or anything else. Still, he knows he can’t sit and wait for her to call back like he wants to or, worse, mope around. He told the police he’d sort things and he meant it. 

As their meeting at Syco had been so very early in the morning and the police’s preliminary investigation only at mid-morning, Louis and the boys had a lot of hours left in the day. The label had discussed bringing them closer than going back to the guesthouse in Brighton until it was quickly agreed that they’d finally move into a small place in London. They’d heard rumblings of being allowed to get their own spaces, but the thought of doing that without Harry made them all distinctly queasy. For Louis, he and Harry had nonchalantly talked about the idea of moving in together and all he could feel now was a suffocating kind of loneliness that yet again took over his mouth without his brain’s permission until he was practically thinly veiled begging the others not to separate and for them to find a little something as one. What possessions they had with them were moved swiftly to London and Louis feels like he only had to blink before he was stood in the fully furnished bedroom he’d have to share until further notice, until, he presumed, Harry came back. When the four of them loitered in the tiny hallway, Niall had weakly joked that it would be “just like old times, like the X Factor”, although he didn’t believe it and neither did anyone else. They simply fell against one another in a huddle and tried to overlook the missing piece of their puzzle that worked.

Louis was also equally parts glad and uncomfortable that he hadn’t been tasked with collecting Harry’s belongings from Brighton. The removal vans had brought them along with everything else but, on the other hand, the thought of someone unknown messing with Harry’s stuff had him feeling like a crazed mother hen. “Don’t touch that!” “Keep it like it is!” “Do not disturb!” This was at least part of the reason why he was scared of Anne returning his call.

Deciding to get to business before the police turn up at the house in the late afternoon, Louis slips out of his and Zayn’s room and pads quietly to the bathroom. He’s supposed to be in here anyway, telling the boys downstairs eating takeaway that he needed the loo and would be right back...twenty minutes ago. As if he hasn’t dawdled enough, Louis opens the bathroom cabinet above the sink and stares at the toothbrush leaning in a cup inside. If he could just pull it out and wait for the police to get here so he can hand it over that’d be great. But he can’t. It’s an innocuous green and blue toothbrush and he can’t. It’s Harry. Just like his randomly empty cardboard coffee cups are Harry and the pen marks on his fingertips are Harry and the misshapen outline of his jeans pockets where he’s shoved his phones in deep are Harry.

Louis shakes his head. “This is stupid.” he whispers to his increasingly pale, battered complexion. “And you really fucking need a tan. Man up, Tommo.”

With a breath, he takes hold of the cabinet door and yanks it open at the same time there’s a knock to the bathroom and that door opens to reveal Liam’s head popping through. Louis hates that he jumps but he wasn’t concentrating on being interrupted and he rears back as the cabinet manages to hit him clean in the nose and as he’s blinking away the pain and spitting curses he sees Liam’s face fall.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean – ”

“Stupid fucking wanking shitting thing!” Louis yells crossly, cutting Liam’s apology off as he slams the door closed and watches with a tiny curl of satisfaction as the glass momentarily shakes in its bonds.

Unfortunately, the toothbrush in his hand drops to the tiles as well and suddenly he sees an ugly, misdirected surge of red to make him harshly stamp on it without a second’s thought. He happens to be wearing something other than Toms on his feet and he crunches his heel again and again into the plastic, hard enough to feel the effect up his calf, before the feeble plastic splinters on the end.

“Louis? _Louis_?” its louder the second time and Louis blinks to clear his vision, to see that Liam’s now stood in front of him with his hand lightly on his shoulder and his doe eyes wary.

Silently, they switch to looking down at the crushed remains of the toothbrush.

“Is that - ?”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs and bends to pick it up, relieved that the important part is still intact. He half points it at Liam. “Evidence for the police. Said they needed some kind of DNA.”

Liam wrinkles his nose at that. Louis thinks he looks confused or disgusted at the thought, but he can’t bring himself to explain so he just lets the moment hang. Mentioning the visit seems to snap Liam into reality and the hand on Louis’ shoulder squeezes briefly.

“They should be here soon.” he says softly.

Louis nods then Liam darts forward the inch he needs before Louis is wrapped within his arms, his body rigid from the force of it. A couple of seconds later, Liam gingerly withdraws, not quite meeting Louis’ admittedly slightly amused gaze. Louis changes the subject to what the police will do here when they get to the house.

Liam shrugs as they exit the bathroom together and slope down the stairs, “Dunno. Something about monitoring our calls,”

“Oh great.” Louis replies with a huff, really hoping that this won’t mean they’ll have to listen in when Anne rings.

As it turns out, the police are working from an anonymous tip off. The two police officers that interviewed the boys traipse through the door as well as more people they’ve never met before cradling machines under their arms. They take up residence in the kitchen and the female explains what information they have about the tip to the four bewildered boys. Louis thinks he remembers her name as Lucie or Louise or something beginning with L but forgive him he’s been distracted lately and one glance at the others tells him that they’re not faring much better. Apparently, they’re expecting another call any hour now – because calling back with the boys present was the only condition the anonymous caller stipulated – and after half an hour of officers nursing mugs of tea and lazily chomping on whatever biscuits happen to be in the cupboards at the time, they kick into action at the sound of another member of the team’s mobile phone shrilly ringing. He’s older than those who interviewed Louis and, he guesses, more superior and they watch as the police officer takes the phone calmly out of his suit jacket pocket, answers it then slowly lays it in the middle of the machines on the kitchen table and set on speakerphone.

“Am I on speakerphone?”

It’s a male voice and Louis looks to see that his friends are passing glances at each other too. He’s not sure what he was expecting exactly but somehow it wasn’t a man with an English accent that also has the twang of something that quite isn’t, like his ancestry is trickling through. It’s not an especially deep voice but it is crisp and clear, as if he relishes an audience or enjoys public speaking. Louis can’t hear cars or people, strangely imagining a covert phone call from a phonebox on a busy street but he can’t hear any background noise at all and that must mean that of course who ever this guy is he’s at home. He looks at the senior policeman, willing him to speak as he and the boys stand in a line behind the team sat at the table and bank of recording machines.

“You are. Now, do you have some information for us?”

“Oh,” the anonymous caller says and Louis feels himself frown as he can practically hear the delight in the man’s tone, “I have _plenty_ of information for you. It’s whether I’m willing to give it, that’s the real question.”

Louis opens his mouth but Liam catches his elbow in time and shakes his head curtly, telling him in no uncertain terms to be quiet or at least wait until the senior figure in their temporary home says it’s okay to speak.

“Can you tell me what you mean by that?” the policeman asks calmly as Niall, at Louis’ left side, starts to nervously chew on his fingernails.

“I could tell you, but - actually, do you want to hear for yourself instead?”

Louis finds he can’t keep his eyes off the policeman with his greying hair and straight up manner, like he’s been there and seen it all a million times before. A bit like Simon really and Louis decides that he never wants to witness Simon be wrong-footed like this man is. He recovers quickly and is about to formulate a neutral, calm response when there’s already footsteps in the background that are unusually loud in the silence of the phone line and the tiny kitchen in a London flat.

“Say hello, Harry.”

A chill stutters down Louis’ spine the instant he hears those three little words. He’ll admit that hope bloomed in his chest at the realisation that someone knew where Harry was and that at least he was still alive, but it was quickly followed by his heart plummeting to his feet. At first, there is a terrifying beat of nothing and it feels like everyone is holding their breath.

“Come on,” cajoles the caller and Louis feels that his voice is starting to make his skin crawl, like this is all some _game_ to him, “don’t be rude, Harry. Say hello.”

Then there is a quiet sound. A guy sitting to Louis’ left with half of a pair of headphones held to his ear twiddles some parts and pushes some buttons, presumably to increase the volume to stop them from straining their ears. But it seems like the caller isn’t happy and he continues to needle who Louis sort of hopes is Harry on the other side of the line, even as his hackles rise at the thought.

“Be careful, Harry. Now one more time. Say. Hello.”

The sound is as clear as a finely tuned whistle and Niall’s head whips round to stare at Liam’s shocked face and Louis sees the way Zayn tries to get his arm snug against Niall’s shoulder to also reach his. Except the sound doesn’t stop and it suddenly makes sense. It’s a whimper. Like Harry is hurt or something prevents him from speaking properly. The noises rise hoarsely in urgency and Louis knows, probably everyone does, that he _is_ trying to say something more valuable than hello. However, as quick as they’ve begun, there’s a muffled thud before the whimpering cuts off completely. This time, Louis can’t help himself and his body reacts on instinct to grab the phone and demand answers from this prick who knows where Harry is and is more than likely the person who is keeping him there. That part of the situation is still a muddle, how Harry could’ve gone from dancing with a girl in a club to being holed up somewhere with a nutcase, but Louis hasn’t got the patience to question that right now. Instead, he’d like to shove his hand through the phone and pull this man’s guts out through his well punched mouth. He feels sick from knowledge and helpless energy and a white-hot violent edge that he simultaneously wants to cling to and speedily run away from.

Sadly, he’s not taken anyone else into account and he feels arms hold his biceps and soft hands touch his lips so he doesn’t make a sound. The fight inside him dwindles in the protective ring of his friends’ embrace and he feels all the aches and pains he’s been carrying around with him return with a vengeance as sags back against them and wearily listens to the senior detective start negotiations to try and tempt the caller into the demands of a ransom.

“He’s not for sale, at least not to you.”

It’s enough to have Louis’ muscles twitch, but the grasp on his limbs tighten fractionally as Liam mouths “for Harry” with his face close and sincere. Louis nods reluctantly, biting his lip hard to keep his new promise.

“I know a couple of people,” the caller continues casually, like he’s describing the state of today’s grey slate weather, “His looks, he’d do well.”

The four of them squeeze their eyes shut at that, realising that Harry’s vulnerable and exposed to anything – pain, drugs, non-consensual sex – and they remain as helpless as they feel. The pressure on Louis’ arms increases as he stands in the middle of their newly formed huddle, but this time it’s to comfort themselves and he breathes deeper, taking in the fact that he’s not alone. The caller warns laughingly against tracking technology to try and triangulate Harry’s whereabouts and Louis is naturally confused until the line goes dead after a nonchalant “I’ll be in touch,” and the officers’ screens suddenly erupt from methodical calculations into a messed up swirl of dots and colours. He’s faked any signal they might’ve had.

Louis stares at the dots until they blend together. “They know who he is.”

“What, mate?” Zayn touches his shoulder.

He turns and steps back towards the kitchen doorway, framed in it. “They know who he is,” he says, injecting more confidence into his voice, “otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to sell him to the highest bidder like a fucking – a fucking – ”

“Lou – ”

He swallows back words like _slave_ or _rentboy_ , “ – object!” he exclaims, ignoring his friends.

“Maybe the label can pay him off...” suggests that same lilting voice that’s fallen exceptionally timid.

“Weren’t you listening? He’s not for sale!” he yells, sees the way Niall’s eyes widen and instantly regrets it, “Nialler, I didn’t – I’m – ” but it’s too late and the blonde knocks into his shoulder as he pushes past him and thuds up the stairs, upset but probably more than angry at being an unfair target for emotion.

“Fuck!” Louis snaps, his knuckles pummelling into the doorframe and his forehead following before Liam or Zayn can get there.

Even so, Liam pushes him into the hallway so they can at least be away from the strangers in the flat despite the possibility that they’d understand any huge outpouring of feelings and thus probably not pay it any mind.

“Stop it,” he says and Louis feels his shoulders being shook for emphasis, “ _stop it_. Splitting your head open is not going to help anyone, okay? Listen, I’m going to talk to them in there, see if they can let us in on what they’re going to do next. They’ll get him back, Louis. I promise.”

Louis looks between his two friends standing in front of him (he’ll need to apologise to Niall soon) and wants to believe Liam with every fibre of his being, even though he doesn’t think he entirely believes his words himself. Liam pats his shoulder and Zayn rests his arm on Louis’ and stares until he breaks and tentatively smiles. Just as he starts to feel some of the surface tension leave his body, Louis’ phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and answers it recklessly without checking the caller ID first, still shaken and impulsive from forbidden moves towards Harry.

“Hello, Louis. It’s Anne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on Tumblr for a chat if you like at [theprincessed](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com). :)


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. Here we are again. Y'know maybe this'll encourage me to write more because I'm not really thinking about anything else at the moment. We shall see.
> 
> In this chapter, there's another flashback from Harry and Anne finally gets to speak to Louis about her son's whereabouts. It ain't pretty.

Harry is really beginning to hate waking up to a pounding headache. This time has some novelty factor though as the pain throbs at the crown of his head instead of his temples. For a moment, he is confused and then he looks over and sees Luka’s darkening silhouette leaning in the doorway as the day turns into early evening. Ankles and arms crossed, Luka smirks then turns to leave and that’s when what happened comes back to Harry.

Luka had been on the phone to someone and Harry couldn’t work out why he was being allowed to hear his conversational dealings before the mobile phone was actually brandished near his face and Luka was demanding he say hello. He’d frowned in still present confusion and annoyance, both of them knowing full well that he couldn’t when his bloodstained mouth was dissected by a dirty rag pulled tight in towards his sore teeth. Apparently that wasn’t good enough and Harry let his voice do whatever it thought of first. He blinked a little in surprise himself at the sound of the whimper, but was spurred on to make it immediately stronger after the first try. A frenzy of need possessed him when Luka’s teasing remarks and talk of sales (or not as it were) made it clear that he was conversing with someone official, an authority figure, maybe even the police themselves. He knew he was probably putting himself in danger beneath a volatile man, but the bone-deep desire to be free fed into his reckless rebelling again and his face contorted into a pained scowl as he rattled his body forcefully within his bonds in the hope that whoever was on the other end of the phone placed on speakerphone would understand his plight. He had the briefest flickering thought about the other boys, that if the police were talking with Luka then that had to mean that they missed Harry and wanted him back and had gone to find help. It was brief because it was the last thing shimmering inside his head before there was swift, brutal darkness.

If Harry could touch his head right now, he guesses he would find a lump or a cut as a result of his head rebounding off the pillar behind him thanks to the punch Luka had given to his face lightning-quick upon hearing the volume of his “hello”, but he knows it’s obvious he can’t and tries to relax his shoulders from the split second effort. His hair feels sticky from more than frustrated sweat and the urge to cry slams into him until he’s forced to take a shaky breath in and bite down on his lip to stop it from happening. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he could press his fingers against his eyelids to hide away from the vulnerability, even as he glances sidelong at the men guarding the doorway to find them unseeing and not paying him any attention, like statues, as per usual.

His mother was never opposed to him shedding tears.

It’s actually a shock to think of her. He thought that if he didn’t then he wouldn’t have to remind himself to be brave. If he had no one he loves to be brave for, it would come down to self-preservation, fighting for himself, and that was a lot easier to handle. He pictures her and all he sees is how utterly out of her mind with worry she must be and shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. It hangs limply in front of his face and it’s all too much. She’s not supposed to ever feel like that. She’s not supposed to be anything but smiling and attracting attention like she owns it and Harry’s somehow inherited the magnetism from her. He has to think of somebody, something, else or who knows what will happen. 

The next person in line that comes to mind is Jay. It’s not the surprise it probably should be. As much as he likes her and is slightly giddy that she gets on with his mum as well as he and Louis do, she isn’t his mother herself and consequently it hurts less to think of her. Without the tied to a post and gagged, it would be...nice. But it’s all he’s got and Harry’s usually one to go with the flow, so he does just that. He lets his memories once again take him far, far away. This time, he closes his eyes in the hope that these people will think he’s in another exhausted bout of sleeping and leave him in this alcove of relative peace.

He remembers the first time he met Jay properly, when the competition was done and dusted. Standing in front of Louis’ house in Doncaster, Harry impatiently shook his hair out and pushed it back off his forehead in a practiced move Louis had witnessed a hundred times over. He could feel the other boy’s eyes and amused smile on him then a nudge to his elbow.

“Mate,” he whispered, humouring Harry’s earlier pleading to let them have a moment before they went inside, “don’t look so nervous, okay? You’ve met her before! You’re not asking her permission to marry me or something.”

Harry frowned; shoving Louis back with his own elbow and feeling his expression melt away anyway when Louis laughed gleefully. He reached for the door with a brisk, happy “come on” and Harry knew he couldn’t dawdle anymore and followed him. He worked out early on that it was (perhaps frighteningly) easy to follow Louis’ lead.

“Mum!” he yelled, grinning at a wincing Harry as he made them stand in the hallway, “We’re here!”

“I can see that.” Jay replied calmly as she appeared from a room to their left with a smile that soon brightened.

She hugged her son and kissed him on the cheek in greeting and Harry tried not to smile too big at the simple affection before he was seized with a strange kind of anxiety as Jay turned towards him. He stuck out his hand like a fairly petrified robot with a “Mrs Tomlinson” tumbling from his lips without being able to catch it in time. Jay took his proffered hand warmly in hers but raised an eyebrow at Louis.

“Who’s this guy and what have you done with Harry?”

Louis shook his head at her, “I don’t know,” then pushed at Harry again, “Oi, you’re acting like you’ve never even met my mum – no, worse, like she’s royalty!”

“I’m just being polite.” he mumbled awkwardly.

Jay came to stand by his side and slid her arm around his waist, “There’s politeness, love, and then there’s overkill. Unfortunately, the Mrs T thing was a little too – ”

“ - Old? Redundant?”

She rolled her eyes at Louis’ chip in, “– _Formal_.” She nudged Harry gently. “What’s the matter? Don’t you fancy me anymore?”

Harry blinked; distracted slightly by the exaggerated retching noises from Louis at his other side. “I – I – ”

But Jay laughed, “Your face is a picture when you’re surprised. Come on. How about we have a cuppa and a catch up? You can tell me all about what happens next.”

“Yes!” Louis announced, walking ahead of them and into the kitchen, “Yorkshire Tea I have missed you!”

After that, Harry knew without a doubt that he didn’t have to mince his words with someone like Jay. He wasn’t scared or nervous around her once she’d bypassed his attempt at not overstepping the mark of familiarity in her own house. She was easy to get along with, made it easy on his mumbling lanky self to open up and he understood perfectly how over the course of the show his mum and Louis’ had become fast friends.

As a consequence, Harry was a lot more comfortable meeting Louis’ brood of sisters again. Following on from a couple hours of lazy conversation with Jay, the rest of the Tomlinsons came barrelling back into his life with a kind of frenetic energy he recognised in Louis whenever he was bored and looking for adventure. Harry was sat next to him on the sofa in the living room when they all heard the door click open and instant chatter. Even Louis sat up a little straighter and Harry reacted stiffly in kind, however pleased he was to see them, until he realised what Louis was doing. One of the twins was halfway to running excitedly straight past them with barely a glance when Louis reached out and caught her around the middle.

“And where have you been, you little monster?” he asked, watching her squirm in his lap as he lightly tickled her in hello.

“I’m not little!” she giggled, ruining her otherwise stern exclamation.

“Alright then, big fat monster!” Louis laughed, weaving away from her hand coming towards his face and grasping her wrist. “You haven’t noticed yet, eh?”

She instantly stopped struggling as curiosity crossed her face. Louis inclined his head to mean Harry and watched as her whole body froze in his arms. Tipping her back into the crook of his elbow and holding her close even though she was getting too big, Louis kissed her forehead with another chuckle and looked at Harry.

“You remember Harry, right?” she glanced up at her brother from her position against his chest in such a grown up, deadpan way Harry had to stifle his own giggle. “Just checking,” Louis defended, briefly tickling her ribs once.

“Hi Daisy.” Harry smiled, feeling slightly odd to be around a set of siblings younger than him when he was so used to being the youngest in his family.

She smiled in a shy hello and was otherwise mute until Louis started tickling her again, her legs kicking accidentally at the side of Harry’s thigh and her shrieks getting louder until Jay popped her head in from the kitchen where Harry presumed the other girls were.

“I would’ve thought you’d have had enough of screaming girls already,” she smirked and Harry felt oddly self-conscious at the realisation of what their life had suddenly become in the last few months.

Louis paused as if in thought then nodded, sitting Daisy up. “Good point. Go on, off you go.”

Glad for the respite and red in the face from exertion, Daisy slipped off her brother’s knees. Harry was expecting her to run off instantly to find her sisters so was entirely stunned when she lunged at him in a hug with arms brushing his neck.

“Hi Harry.” she said then toddled off, not bothered by the fact that Harry could only manage a pat to her slim back before she was gone.

“How is that fair?” Louis complained, but he was smiling underneath it, “I have to practically stop them from running away to get a cuddle and you just sit there like a lemon and get one for free!”

Jay, hovering nearby as she watched her daughter and the two boys in amusement, piped up in mock warning. “Now now, Lou. Jealousy is not a good look on you. Girls? Come and say hello to your jealous big brother!”

Harry looked between them – at Louis’ unaffected sniggering towards his mother’s gleeful sense of humour and the happy fondness in Jay’s eyes to have her first born back home for as long as she was afforded the luxury – and he knew that they were both special. Special to each other and special to him. People he could enjoy the company of and completely rely on. They almost felt like a once in a lifetime family. He hoped they felt the same about his.

\--

Louis wakes up to an awful headache and a room that isn’t his. For a moment, he is utterly confused and a little panicky as he rubs his tired eyes into life and tries to remember what happened the last time he was awake. It feels like he has a hangover, complete with cotton mouth and queasy stomach and all he wants to do is roll over and sleep for a decade but none of it makes any sense. It makes even less of one when he tries to get comfortable again and nearly rolls off the edge of the bed. Ah, a room that isn’t his. Bleary eyed, he takes in the single bed and small, blue walls with not much else to the room and slowly it clicks. This had been his room, once. Before a massive house and singing on television every weekend had somehow managed to take over everything he almost took dangerously for granted.

With a pitiful groan that hurts his head and his ears and even his dry throat for making the sound, Louis flops onto his back in weak exhaustion and tries to piece together what’s left as blank holes in his memory. If he was in Doncaster, there had to be a reason why. Of course he could’ve just wanted to see his mum or she him but his face felt tight and tender, like he’d been crying and he’s never been one for happy tears as such and for all intents and purposes he’s a grown man for God’s sake, so simply seeing his mother again was obviously not the cause. He’s not absent in his own head enough to not remember that Harry’s missing, regardless that he guiltily wishes he was that forgetful. It’s the first thing he thinks about in the morning, feels the space like the sudden loss of a limb, and the last thing at night because saying goodnight to three people instead of four isn’t right. Even so, he’s not sure Harry’s disappearance would be the sole reason either. Instead, he tries to put being back in Doncaster with his mother and thoughts of Harry together and eventually two plus two becomes four and Louis remembers one of the key elements.

 _Anne_.

A mother just like his own, Anne had returned Louis’ call the day before. His headache starts to become more insistent in its throbbing presence but he’s frozen. He can’t tumble out of his old bed and go to the bathroom or the kitchen. He can’t do anything except stare unblinkingly at the ceiling and remember with shuddering clarity that the phone call had not been pretty. He’d feared and expected as much, but that didn’t mean it made him feel any less rotten. She’d been worried from the first word because Harry hadn’t been in contact when usually it was fairly regular, even if it was just a text, but she’d tried not to show it in her voice. She chose to be as calm as possible and Louis could feel his heart beating harder than if there had been an immediate demand to know what was going on.

“Louis? Where’s Harry?” His heart twists in his ribcage, making him lose his voice and only able to gawp like a fish out of water for a valuable second. “Louis, _please_.”

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, blurted out on instinct the only words he really wants to convey.

He sees the other boys swivel their heads to look at him, sat in the living area at dinner time in front of the television, and turns his back to them before thinking more of it. He moves from standing halfway between the armchair just vacated and the doorway and goes through it, straight into the kitchen for some privacy. They probably know who it is from the nervous drain of colour on his skin but he can’t even meet their eyes right now with what he’s been tasked to do.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats as Anne stays blessedly silent, “I wanted to tell you - I really did - I just...” the sigh escapes him before he’s aware of it and tastes like defeat. “...didn’t. Harry’s not here because – because he’s missing.”

He slides into the nearest seat around the kitchen island and leans the elbow with the hand clutching his mobile phone on the smooth, cold surface as she echoes in a dull voice, “Missing?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. We know he’s with someone.”

“So he’s _not_ missing?”

Louis can tell she’s confused and, as he squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, he doesn’t blame her. “I don’t – I can’t explain this that good. He’s just – he’s not – here.”

“Louis.” Anne entreats, but her voice is different somehow – like just before an animal attacks. “Where is he? Where’s my son?”

“Someone’s got him. We don’t know who or where or why but they’ve taken him and I’m so sorry and the police are trying everything and now he’s not just missing, this is – this is theft and they want to speak to you and I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you sooner but I didn’t know what was wrong and when I did I was so scared, you’ve got to believe me, I’d never want to see Harry hurt or you and – ”

“I’m coming to London.”

Louis realises that he’s been babbling and the hand unwittingly scrunching his hair drops to the counter as those four cutting words sink in. “What? No! I mean, you can’t. You – ”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I can and can’t do,” she grits out sharply, voice dangerously low, “My son is missing, possibly kidnapped, and you’re sitting around, what? Twiddling your thumbs and _deciding_ whether to tell me?”

“I was – I thought – ”

“No,” Anne interrupts fiercely again, on fire, “that’s the point. You didn’t _think_. I’m coming to London and I want to know everything, every last little detail, however big or small. _You_ don’t get to decide what to tell me when it concerns _my_ son. Got it?”

“But the police,” Louis says, voice small and uncertain as to whether he should bring anything else up, “they’re coming to see you. They were talking about needing photographs and I was going to tell you, I swear, I just – I needed to find the right time – ”

“I’m sorry, Louis, but there’s no such thing as the right time. You should’ve told me.” she pauses and the silence seems to galvanise her practical side because when she speaks again, it’s still firm like steel but quieter, “Tell the police to cancel their visit. I’m coming to them. I’ll have to let everyone know here what’s going on and it’ll take me a couple of hours but I’m coming and that’s the end of it.”

“Okay.” he whispers, knowing it’s entirely fair as he feels his body shiver with pent up emotion, “Okay. Give Paul a ring and he’ll tell you where we are. We’ve got a temporary flat near enough to the station, in case the police need us.”

“No,” she says and her voice cracks as she tries to hang on to the last shreds of the call before she can let the obvious tears fall. “I can’t – I can’t stay with you or near you. I’ll get a room at a hotel for now. I...I didn’t really expect one of the others to call me about Harry, even though that would’ve been nice, but you...”

“I told them I’d do it. I told them I’d call you and let you know.”

“But you, Louis,” she says again, like his defence of his friends doesn’t really matter and frankly he understands why it wouldn’t. “I trusted you. You lied to me. You should’ve told me as soon as you thought something was wrong, however silly it sounded. It’s better to be safe than sorry and now – now I’m sorry.”

“Me too. So much.”

After a curt goodbye is exchanged, Anne hangs up quicker than him and he sits for a moment with the phone pressed to his ear and his head rested on the kitchen counter, listening to the dead sound of the line. When his hand starts to ache, he disconnects the call but keeps his forehead on the cool, hard surface and tries to breathe. He’s expecting the boys to come and find him, but still twitches when he guesses who’s filing in when, Zayn lightly pushing at his shoulder with a fist, Liam’s arm snaking around his back and Niall’s proximity on his other side.

“Are you okay?” Liam. Soft, steady, worried. Louis has no idea how to answer that one. Is he? “I mean,” he amends, clearing his throat, “of course you’re not _okay_ , none of us are, but how was it? That was Anne, yeah?”

Louis sits straight again and nods slowly once as he stares at his hands, flipping the mobile phone around and around. “She’s coming here, to London. And it’s all my fault.”

He raises his eyes in a glance just in time to see Zayn’s face twist in disbelief, “How can you say that? You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s the fault of the sicko who’s got Harry.”

“I should’ve told her.” Louis mumbles low, shaking his head, “She said I should’ve told her sooner. And she’s right.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but – ”

“Well, she knows now.” Liam interrupts, “She’s coming here and the police will handle the rest, make sure she gets the proper support. You did good, Lou.”

Louis shrugs out of his grip, slipping off the bar stool like he’s been poked in the back, “How can you say that? I didn’t stop him, I didn’t – I didn’t tell Anne that her only son went missing two bloody days ago and I got my fucking face smashed in because I tried to get off with a silly tart – how is any of that good, Liam? You tell me how any of this mess is good and isn’t my fault ...” he sees his friend valiantly open his mouth to try, but he’s too irritable to listen to the nice explanation he’s no doubt desperately going to formulate, “On second thoughts, don’t. Just – just leave me alone, okay? I need – space.”

Unsure of where he is going but feeling too suffocated by sad eyes that look like his own, Louis briskly stalks into the hallway to pick up his jacket and is out of the door before they can so much as blink. They can probably see slices of his shape in the glass of the front door as he leans there for a moment, breathing, but they don’t come after him. It affords him a faint smile that they’re giving him what he needs or at least what he thinks he needs.

Exhaling shakily in the chill of the evening air, Louis squares his shoulders and pulls out the sunglasses stuck to his jacket pocket before sliding them on. He may instantly draw more attention to himself now, but he’d rather people see those than the fading bruising on his face and slowly healing eye. Besides, he promised the label he’d keep a low profile. He guesses that’ll change anyway once the press get wind of Harry’s disappearance, so to make the most of the quiet he starts to walk.

At first, it’s nowhere in particular until he ends up outside an off-license nearby. Well, it’s better than a pub with women more than willing to distract and men interested in using their fists. He learnt that the hard way. He buys some cheap alcohol that probably won’t taste at all nice because of it and ambles back to the flat with one of the bottles already clamped in his hand. Zayn happens to be halfway down the stairs when he walks in, but Louis squeezes past him still dressed in his jacket and sunglasses.

“Hey.” he says sharply, fingers circling around Louis’ wrist as he stands a step ahead of him, “Talk to me, man.”

Louis shakes his head wordlessly, wriggling out of his hold. Zayn lets him and sighs and it’s a horrible jarring sound and part of him wants to say something, anything, but a bigger part is just focused on falling face first into his room and shutting the door behind him.

“Louis...”

“Just back off, okay?” he snaps, harsher than intended from the way Zayn goes completely still, trying searchingly to work him out even through the sunglasses. “Alone, remember? I just want to be left alone.”

He thunders up the rest of the staircase and the slam of the door echoes between his ears until it’s almost an ache. He carelessly kicks off his shoes and yanks away his jacket. His sunglasses come next, although he looks to place them down before being unsure. There’s not so much room in here on his own and only the essentially furniture, so in a fit of confused desperation, he pulls open the drawer of his underwear (because he’s unlikely to have a whole drawer full of _socks_ ) and stuffs the pair in there. _They’re safe in there_ , he muses as the lines of his thoughts already begin to blur from the buzz of alcohol.

It’s low percentage, so it takes a while, but eventually Louis starts to think less about some things and more about others. He hops from deciding the room is all wrong to longing to call Harry up to calling Anne again to apologise some more and back again, over and over until empty bottles are clinking against each other on his bed and his head feels dizzy and woozy. He searches for his phone in the folds of the duvet when he remembers that he left it in the kitchen and obviously now seems like a perfect time to get it.

He’s half hoping the boys will be asleep when he stumbles downstairs, always on the edge of giggling about nothing, but they’re not. He walks past the living area with the glow of the TV flowing out into the hall and can’t tell if he’s being too loud in his movements or not when his ears feel stuffed or as if he’s underwater. His usual love for attention and affection tips into the background and he snatches his phone off the counter before stomping back up to his room, suddenly not caring anymore if they know he’s awake. Louis stops in the doorway. He’s angry too, he realises when he spots the tremble of his fingers. To hide that from view, he leans his body against the jamb and dials Harry’s number with one hand and curls another beer into the other. His throat feels dry even as he crams the alcohol down his throat, like gravel is soaking it up and has stopped giving him the pleasure, like he’s going cold turkey when he has to stand and listen to Harry’s voicemail message, Harry’s _voice_ , tell him what he already knows – that the phone will ring and ring and he won’t be there to pick up. He will admit that there was a nauseating kernel of hope inside him that his captor would take the call instead but there is only a beep then silence. Until Louis speaks.

“Harry.” he croaks, “Harry, _please_. Your mum’s so angry at me. I can’t face her alone. I know – I know that’s so fucking selfish, but – I just _can’t_. I need you here. Please.”

He ends the call then rings Harry’s mobile again, his voice filtering through happily as Louis stares at his small surroundings and feels hollow. It’s all wrong. This room is all wrong, his life is all wrong, all their lives are wrong. Before he can catch up to what he’s actually doing, Louis drops his phone still playing Harry’s voice and stamps on it. The plastic splinters and reminds him of the toothbrush and then suddenly, to him, everything should be stamped on, crushed, malfunctioning, as the voice gurgles then quickly stops. He wonders if that’s what happened to Harry – talking and then not. He eyes the lamp and, in a flash, that goes crashing to the floor in a wide, quick arc, he pulls the bed free of its neat bedclothes and stuffs them messily in the corner. Next, it’s a struggle to move the wardrobe so he’s pulling at the doors instead and knows they won’t come off, but jumps out of the way just in time when the universe intervenes to make the furniture overbalance and fall forward. It’s a loud cacophony of noise and the ache in his ears is solidified until his palms are pressed against the side of his head and his breathing pumps erratic along with the throbbing spike of his heartbeat. He hears the startled footsteps of his friends and panics, using the strength he has left in rubber limbs to push the small chest of drawers over onto its side and scraping the carpet to act as a barrier. _Sunglasses_ , he thinks woozily, holding on for balance until someone is banging on the door. He jumps out of the way like he did with the wardrobe, breathless and caught red handed if only they could see. They’re screaming his name and he wants to leave but he’s blocked his only way out.

“Louis!” they chorus together before Liam demands, “Open the door! Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s going on in there?”

Blinking furiously and red in the face from a raging frustration that makes his arms windmill with nowhere to fly, Louis glances between the doorway and the empty bottles on the bare mattress. In a split second, they all hear the sound of splintering glass as a bottle hurtles into the door and showers down onto the carpet upon impact. Louis can almost hear the gasp of shock or fright from the other side.

“Go away!” he yells, voice cracking weakly and tripping over his feet until he drops into the far corner of the room. “Just – just go away.”

Knees drawn up to his chest, he listens for the sounds of Liam or anyone else on the other side of the door but blissfully hears nothing more. The frustration returns to a simmer but he still can’t bring himself to push the chest of drawers out of the way again, so he stays where he is, surveying the chaotic damage of his previously still neat room. He can feel tears well up in his eyes, exhausted and apologetic and so scared for wherever Harry might be now. In this aftermath, everything seems quiet again and Louis hopes the others have gone back downstairs as he pulls his now cracked phone from his pocket.

“Mum?” he whispers when Jay picks up, the urge to sprawl in a heap and cry rolling towards him, “Something really bad s’happened.”

He tells her the bare bones of the mess they’re in. “Louis, listen to me. Get in your car and drive up. You should be here.”

Louis does listen to her, voice firm but somehow soothing like only a mother knows how to be both at once but then hesitates, a slow blink wetting his cheek. “I can’t. I – I’ve been drinking.”

“Oh, Lou.” she breathes sympathetically, “Get the train then. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

“I’m not.”

“I know the boys are there, but you’re drinking by yourself...?”

His defensiveness gives way suddenly to confusion, “How did you – ?”

“I can’t hear laughter or conversation or – ”

“Okay.” he cuts her off in a small voice, “I’ll come up tomorrow.”

But that doesn’t seem to satisfy her and her tone loses its soft approach, like she knows him all too well.

“No, Louis. Don’t let this become an issue. You’ll brush it off by morning and try to carry on, but it won’t work, not for this. We need to have a proper talk.”

“I don’t need you to look after me anymore.”

“You’re on your own, drinking yourself stupid because your best friend is missing.” she reminds him gently, “I can hear it in your voice that you’ve been crying.”

“Please, Mum – ” he sniffs, angrily wiping his face with the back of his hand, wondering whether it was a good idea to worry her like this.

“I’m not doing any of this to hurt you, babe. It’s the opposite. I want to see my son. Is that too much to ask?”

With a sigh, he knows she’s playing the age old guilt card and he’s never felt so far away from her and everything important so eventually he agrees to get a bag together and leave as soon as he can. He expects the conversation with his friends to be as awkward or even as confrontational as the one he had with Anne earlier on that evening, but they simply stare at him from the sofa, not quite knowing what to say or do or whether to try and stop him once he’s told them where he’s going. Zayn gets up from the armchair and goes to Louis as he hovers uncertainly between the living area and the cramped hallway. His breath hitches painfully in his chest when a hand comes round the back of his neck and pulls him in to a hug that he doesn’t have time to think about reciprocating with one arm before Zayn is coming out of it.

“Do what you need to do,” he says quietly, attempting a comforting smile but no one’s reaches their eyes these days.

“Thanks.”

“But,” he adds warningly, trying to hold Louis’ gaze hard even though his aviators close him off, “remember Anne’s coming. Don’t – don’t take too long.”

Louis vows that he won’t, guiltily unsure about whether he’s telling the truth or if he’s going to keep his promise. 

It doesn’t help that once the torture of the evening train journey is over and Jay opens the door, all of Louis’ fragmenting emotions crumble into dust and he’s never been as glad that she could catch him than in that moment. It almost feels like she bears the physical weight too, ushering him inside without a second’s hesitation when his shoulders slump miserably and his face clouds with uncertainty.

“Mum,” he croaks, but quietens as soon as she squeezes him to her side, standing in the hallway with a rucksack still on his back.

“Shh now. You’ve told me enough tonight. We can talk more in the morning. How about a cuppa?”

He can tell she’s surprised to see the bruises on his face as her eyes carefully study him and he knows that she believes he should sober up and that’s probably true, but he’s not so intoxicated that he doesn’t already know that himself or can’t feel a thing (like he hoped).

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” he says and she nods silently, still holding onto him, “I just – I wanted to be safe and I didn’t – ”

“It’s alright, Lou,” she interrupts softly, “Come on, let’s go into the kitchen.”

Lying in his old bed, in his old room, with little idea of how long he’s slept except that it’s at least daylight, Louis tries to calm his mind from the snowball that was the previous day’s events. It feels like everything aches, his whole world pulsing with the sensation, but he has some idea now that it can’t possibly be as bad as what Harry might be feeling at the same time. The memory of urgent noises replacing Harry’s aimless drawl and then the shock of cruel silence tries to crawl its way back into his head so, fighting it, Louis rolls over onto his side, pulling the duvet underneath his arms and clinging onto a corner as he remembers instead how he’d reciprocated the bungalow stay with Harry with his own offering and how, come night time, Harry had slotted so easily along his spine and knees, close and resting the same way but not touching with arms. Louis hadn’t even thought to offer to sleep on the floor or downstairs and he certainly wasn’t expecting or going to force his best friend to do so and thus, like everything in their friendship, it was wordlessly agreed upon that they could soberly and willingly sleep in the same bed. It almost felt like being a child again, although Louis knew he’d never felt so intuitively close to anyone else before who weren’t blood related. Harry’s warmth and secure presence was like a lullaby, blocking out the craziness of the prior weeks until there was nothing to do but give in to dreams. Now where was he? Was he alone? Cold? Scared? Or passed out one too many times to grasp what was going on anymore?

Restless, Louis turns onto his back again with the covers twisting around his legs and his hand clamped to his mouth. He can’t quite work out through the still-half-asleep fog of his mind if another torrent of emotion is about to hit him square in the face or if his hangover is worse than he thought until the memories and the yearning and utter helplessness crash together in a rolling wave after wave of guilt. They keep coming, even as he tries to breathe, but quickly they tower high enough that it turns to genuine nausea and Louis’ making a run for the bathroom, the door slamming carelessly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...I hope you realise by now that you'll only like this fic if you're into emotional torment and long, drawn out 'will they/won't they' love stories lol. This fic has turned into a monster in my head, even if it's nowhere near all written yet. Thanks for reading thus far, my lil kitty cats x
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr for a chat if you like at [theprincessed](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com). Nearly at another milestone number! :)


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, lovelies. I bring you the last chapter of previously written stuff for this fic, parts of which is my absolute favourite because I am a huge sap really. I was keeping it back because I had nothing else beyond it, but I'm unexpectedly and suddenly (as in the last week) about halfway through Chapter 9 so I'm throwing caution to the wind now and posting a bit recklessly. Yay. \O/
> 
> Featuring happy reminiscing, Louis facing up to (some) home truths and while Harry may be down, he's most certainly not out...

Meanwhile, during the first hours of Louis’ temporary absence in the group flat, the other boys try to keep things as normal as possible. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. In fact, it’s even harder now that they’re two members down instead of one. They keep altogether in the living area, in front of the droning television but further from each other than they’ve physically been for a while. Liam feels his lips twitch at that, thinking how being in their personal space has become so natural when he had doubts it ever would, at least for him. He suddenly misses Niall tucked into the crook of his neck or his arm around Zayn’s shoulder, fingers captured.

Lost in his own little world alone, Liam looks up from where he’d been staring at the stitching on the legs of his jeans. Zayn is still sprawled in the armchair next to him, his expression dozy in half-sleep. Niall is sat on the sofa beside Liam, but they stay at opposite ends with an empty seat between them, as if Louis will reappear any second and take up the whole space with all his limbs as well as his presence. Niall’s blinking slowly at the television playing some reality show none of them have ever been interested in before, so Liam almost knows for certain that Niall’s as deep in thought as he was moments ago.

“Hey.” he says then clears his throat awkwardly because his voice sounds too loud in the frankly miserable silence. “Remember the cow man?”

Zayn leans his head back on the armrest of the chair so he can peer round at Liam’s face and Liam feels Niall’s eyes on him too without needing to check. He looks down at his hands, not sure what else he’s going to say but choosing to be a bit spontaneous and just rolling with it. In the midst of one of his “corrupting” moments, sometimes Louis would nudge Liam with an elbow and say with unequivocal cheekiness in his eyes, “just _roll with it_ , Li.” Usually Harry would start humming Oasis, distracting Louis until he broke and tried to shut him up with a bout of wrestling that would leave them in a giggly pile.

“Yeah.” he blinks, realising he’s zoned out again and missed Zayn’s thumb stretched across to his knee until he rubs for a second time. “Where was I?”

Niall sighs to his right and sidles up until he and Liam are pressed shoulder to shoulder. Liam lifts his arm automatically before he glances up and sees Zayn frown just ever so slightly. Keeping his giddy smile at bay, Liam prods Niall until he moves back to his previous seat then shuffles along so he’s in the middle and Zayn can take his. They settle down like Liam, he realises now, hoped they would and although he can’t speak for them, the distant ache in his chest subsides.

“Cow man,” Niall prompts, already sounding sleepier.

“Oh yes. You remember him – it – then?”

Liam can nearly _hear_ Zayn’s roll of the eyes. “Of course. He’s pretty much 1D legend.”

Niall snorts at his other side, “Only because Lou tells such good stories.”

“ _Melodramatic_ – ”

“ – Don’t finish that sentence.” Liam interrupts, “He’s not here to defend himself. Okay, so.” he forges on into the tale they know so well. “...and I was thinking, maybe – um – we could...do that?”

“I don’t think we’ll find any cows in London, Liam.” Niall says after a beat of confused quiet.

“Not that!” he laughs, “The mattresses...thing.”

Even as he suggests it, Liam looks at the carpet of the living room and knows that it’ll be a squeeze to get three of them to lay side by side on big mattresses but, however they do it or not, he just wants to know that they _want_ to.

“Li.” Zayn breathes, lifting his head from resting on his friend’s shoulder.

Niall squeezes him around the ribs with a fierce, “ _Yes_.”

A small smile traces Liam’s mouth. His boys are still here. He hasn’t lost them all.

\----

The following morning, he regrets his decision slightly but purely on comfort levels. As a fairly early riser, it doesn’t take long for him to wake up, scrubbing his hands vigorously over his face and yawning quietly before he sits up. Zayn and Niall sleep on either side of him in the same formation where they sat the night previous night. Zayn sleeps curled up on his side, always looking totally at ease with his choice. His hair flops over his forehead unchecked, so Liam hesitantly brushes it from his eyes for him and bites his lip to stop his laugh when a hand tries to swat the intrusion away with a dissatisfied grumble. Clearly not ready to be woken yet, Liam turns to regard Niall. He’s still wearing his snapback from last night, but the peak has moved. Liam watches as its edge prevents Niall from pushing his face further into his pillow like he wants to, so Liam carefully adjusts it for him with a begrudging but ultimately fond sigh. Daddy Liam indeed.

Those two sorted, Liam pats himself down for his phone when he remembers throwing it onto the sofa seat the night before. Retrieving it, he sends off a quick text to Louis then goes into the kitchen to make a call. He calls Paul and intends to ask him how things are, especially with Anne, but, as soon as Paul knows it’s him, he gently explains that he’ll come and talk to the boys face to face. Liam doesn’t like to admit it to himself, but he does his fair share of pacing and quietly opening cupboards until he arrives with a swift knock. Niall and Zayn don’t stir and Liam grins at Paul when he silently raises an eyebrow and follows Liam back into the kitchen to generously give the two boys some extra peace.

“How are you?” he asks, as they stand around the small island countertop.

Liam ignores that. “How’s Anne?”

“I haven’t been to see her yet. I was going to check on her after I saw how all of you are bearing up.”

“We’re friends, not family,” he shrugs then blinks, surprised by the tremble he feels in his chin.

“Try not to worry, Liam.” Paul sighs, reaching to rub at his shoulder with a big hand, “It’s not your responsibility.”

“I don’t mind.” he replies earnestly, eyebrows drawn, “I mean, Lou’s not here, Harry isn’t either and I can’t leave Niall and Zayn...” He trails off to glance quickly through the open door. He can’t see much of anything, only that the sofa doesn’t have as many cushions and the room looks empty when he’s not able to see the cocoon of bodies on the floor. “...We’ve got to stick together.” he adds when turning his gaze back, afraid he’s doing too much of that zoning out lately. “They help me too.”

Paul, who is watching intently, smiles a little. “I believe you. I’ll see Anne as soon as I can. Sit tight.”

He leaves after a stilted hug and Liam feels his hand on the back of his head for a second, as if he’s trying to transfer some of his steady strength into him. Sadly, all it does is make Liam feel even wearier. Still, with a promise to keep in touch about Anne, Liam feels the tension leak out of his shoulders some small amount and sets about cooking breakfast as a distraction.

\----

Louis’ not sure that he’s ever spent so long in his bedroom before. 

Growing up, he was the kind of child who always had someplace else to be, adventures to find and friends to do it with. When he got older, there was school and friends’ houses and places to hang around in, even if it was just the local park. Keeping an eye on his sisters was never an issue either (his room strictly out of bounds as a general – admittedly teenage – rule).

The last twelve or so hours have felt endless and he’s barely seen anyone. He’s guiltily aware that it’s his own choice. Except for the dicey hour after throwing up that morning, he knows he could’ve gone downstairs to spend precious time with his family. That’s what he craved, isn’t it? Only...now he’s here, it doesn’t seem so easy. He’d seen the way his mum had looked at the faded bruising around his eye and the dark mark left on his lip with worried curiosity, but the longer he leaves giving an explanation that’s some kind of truth, the harder it is to actually do it. She might be used to him doing stupid things, acting before he thinks and getting into little scrapes borne out of mischief, but he doesn’t feel like that same person. He feels more vulnerable, fragile, _weakened_ , so he keeps his mouth shut. Someone told him that once, some idiot at school who was bigger and meaner and talked with his fists, much like Pete the oblivious husband. He’d thrown a punch because he thought he could and told Louis to keep quiet or he’d suffer more, so...he hit back. Just the once and he knows it was wrong, regrets it even, but that small feeling that he hated had _disappeared_.

He can’t seem to shake it this time.

Grumbling to himself irritably, Louis’ about to take another nap when there’s a soft thump at his closed bedroom door, followed by scratching. With a sigh, Louis unfolds himself from his tangled sheets and slowly pads barefoot to the door to see what’s going on. When he opens it, a big black blur nudges his calf as their family dog, an excitable Labrador named Ted, barges his way in, apparently oblivious to Louis’ inner turmoil.

“Ted,” he whines, hanging off the door so he doesn’t give in to the urge to stamp his foot like a three year old. “Get off there.”

In response, Ted curls up right in the middle of Louis’ bed and refuses to do anything else. Realising that maybe he’s as good a place to start as any, Louis changes tactic and tries to settle down next to him with a mumbled “oh my god, move over you big lump, jesus”. Ted looks up until Louis shows that he can stay with a rub to his head.

“Wish I was a dog,” he says under his breath, feeling silly for admitting it even though that’s how he feels. “Eat, sleep, go for walks,” – careful to avoid the trigger of “ _walkies_ ” - “chase cats, get petted and cuddled...what a life. Simple. Instead, I’m in a boyband, sort of famous, missing my friends and having a shit time. I wish I knew how to fix it.”

In a lull of the one-sided conversation, Louis’ phone chirps to signal a text message. For a split second, he thinks about not looking but then another split second whispers what is always on his mind lately – what if it’s Harry? A knock at the door – Harry? A ringing phone – Harry? Post through the letterbox - a postcard from Harry laughing at them all for falling for his elaborate prank as he suns himself in Marbella?

When he plucks up the courage to look at his phone, it reveals that it’s not Harry but Liam and gloriously enough Louis’ still grateful for that. After all, Liam could have some news.

 _heyyyy lou_ , it says, _how r u? plz come home we miss youuuuu xxx_

Louis feels an ache flare up in his bones and leans down towards Ted to press his face closer to his fur, feeling the dog breathing against the hand he’s placed on his solid flank. Before he can wallow, his half open door slides along the carpet a bit more as there’s a knock. Lottie stands cautiously next to the jamb, looking younger and wiser than her years simultaneously. 

“Hi.”

Louis sits up and pulls out a closed mouth smile, ushering her forward. “Hey, come on in.”

Ted makes a low sound like he’s been usurped as far as attention goes (and to be fair, he has but sister trumps pet) and lumbers off Louis’ bed and out of his room. Louis stares after him, wondering why he didn’t do that when he was asked first, but promptly focuses on Lottie when she perches on the other side of his bent knees. She still looks unsure and he gazes back in concern as his protective nature rises.

“Everything alright?” he asks, “With you, I mean,”

She seems surprised, her blue eyes large, “Me? Oh, yeah, fine. Are you...?”

It feels like there’s perceptively more to her question but Louis soldiers on over it with a brighter, “Yep, yep I’m fine too.”

She frowns though and he struggles not to press his thumbs into the space between her eyebrows like he used to when she was a child, to annoy her. He thinks it would annoy her now, but maybe for a different reason. It’s when she’s eyeing his face and looking so much like Jay in that moment that he at least understands a little bit of what she’s not saying.

“Honestly,” he smiles, grasping her wrist lightly to rub his thumb soothingly along her pulse, “this is nothing, just a new scrape. You know me, Lots, always finding trouble,”

“You don’t have to find it,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes, “ _it_ finds you.”

Louis laughs then stops and swallows, her wit much like something Harry would say. He’s hedging his bets here because he doesn’t know if his mum has told his sisters anything, but guesses probably not. At least not until they have some concrete leads, some bigger hope that will lead them to Harry, but she just looks so...quietly sad and he wonders if that’s what he looks like too.

The house is rarely quiet and today is no exception. From his door left ajar, he can hear the loud volume of the television downstairs and the twins’ chatter – still talking over each other sometimes a mile a minute like Louis had when he was their age, only times two – and kitchen sounds of his mother possibly preparing dinner for later. His eyes find his sister’s and he pats her hand then flicks her upturned palm to pull her out of her carefully thoughtful expression. They both know things aren’t right.

“Lou,” she says slowly, “you know you can tell me anything, right? I mean, I’m a big girl, I can handle it. What’s going on?”

He opens his mouth, not entirely sure what he’s about to say, when thumping footsteps sound on the staircase and he pauses. He glances at Lottie as he counts three sets and braces himself, pulling her into a fast, crushing hug with his hand cradling the back of her head. She smells sweet and doesn’t wriggle out of his embrace especially quick so he takes the chance to breathe her in and press a “thanks, babe, everything’ll be alright,” next to her ear.

“Louis!” two voices yell in like a full, happy chorus as he and Lottie ease apart, “Louis! Louis! Louis!”

He’s barely seen the twins since he came home and for a second he remembers subconsciously why he decided not to make the usual fuss of them and he’s just about to touch his face in some panicked attempt to hide the lingering mottled marks when he gets two armfuls of girl, thankfully at least ignoring his injuries in place of using him as a climbing frame. The wind gets knocked out of him and he flops back onto the bed, but he’s so relieved to hear himself laughing again as they scramble up. Daisy settles across his lap and Phoebe over his chest, making it kind of hard to breathe but a few moments won’t hurt too much. He’s positive he heard three pairs of steps and turns his face towards the door, where Felicite is languishing.

“Run up!” he croaks and watches as she grins, hesitation gone, and does just that by aiming for his legs.

Lottie has been bumped down towards his feet so Louis tries to be mindful of thrashing too wildly, but it’s hard with a lapful of squirming siblings and he can’t help joining in with the giggles when Lottie shrugs and tries her best to pile on as well. As a result of their laughter and a covert amount of tickling to everyone involved, Jay goes unnoticed as she climbs the stairs and finds her children in her son’s old room. Lottie is the first to glance at her leaning against the doorjamb with an unconcerned smile on her face and she nudges Louis’ arm where it’s wrapped over the twins’ backs. 

“Oh, hi Mum,” he says, smile growing when his sisters focus on her like a pack of curious meerkats.

Instead of answering, Jay and Lottie seem to have a silent conversation that they’ve perfected even more in Louis’ absence. He’s half tempted to put it as a female intuition thing, but he knows that he and the boys have developed a sort of shorthand too so says nothing. Apparently done with it, Lottie gets to her feet and glances to her other sister, inclining her head towards the door. They each drag a twin off Louis and he smiles at them before they’re lead away with promises of a brilliant treat after dinner.

“Hey, Fizz?” he calls, waiting until she turns around, “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Er, okay.”

He figures that he can have some sort of conversation with her, even if it’s not very deep or dark for her sake, and maybe actually tell Lottie a bit more. They all love Harry – hell, everyone loves Harry – but the twins are out of the question as he doesn’t want to unnecessarily upset them and okay, maybe even if he does tell them the diluted version, it’s telling _himself_ yet again that it will still have happened, still be real. 

However, his mother is harder to fool. 

“You don’t have to keep putting on a brave face, not around us.”

Louis pulls his knees up to his chest and looks away. “I do. I’m their big brother.”

Jay comes forward to sit by his legs, facing him. Out of habit, she reaches to brush away his fringe from his downcast eyes and down to cup his cheek, mindful of the bruising, until he has no choice other than to look up. Over the years of schoolboy pranks, Louis’ become the master at being selective of the truth. She knows that he got into a fight but not why, to save everybody their blushes and his just as bruised ego. 

“You’re still _my_ baby boy,” she says, “always will be.”

“Mum – ”

She holds his chin firmly, “No, Louis. Talk to me.”

He doesn’t know where to start so the silence stretches between them. Unfortunately, he’s also usually the one to break them and he lets out a big sigh.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without him.” he admits in a smaller voice then he’d like.

“Fight.” she replies immediately, eyes fierce with certainty. “Never give up hope that he’s coming back. That’s what you need to be strong for, nothing else.”

She leans over to kiss his forehead and the gesture is so tender and motherly that a shock of homesickness hits Louis even though he _is_ home and Jay is sitting right in front of him. His shoulders slump at the same time she pulls him against her and he wriggles a hand up quickly towards his face to wipe a tear before it falls, pressing his lips tight together to stubbornly make the urge subside. He comes back to himself with a shuddery breath, feeling slightly ridiculous as her arms tighten around his body and they rock gently together.

“So...do you love Harry?” she asks into his hair. Louis reels backwards, shocked, and Jay has the decency to look contrite. “Sorry. It just slipped out. Well? Do you like him then?”

He gives her a strange look. “Of course I like him. He’s my best mate.”

“You know what’s not what I meant,”

“And you’re my mum,” he frowns. “You can’t ask me that.”

“Okay, okay.” she smiles, hands up in surrender, “What you feel for Harry is none of my meddling motherly business, I promise.”

“You have way too much interest in him,”

“But he’s so cute! He makes you happy!” she enthuses.

“Mum – ” Louis warns awkwardly, “What about Hannah? What if I’d, I don’t know, married her or something?”

“I’d’ve welcomed her into this crazy family with open arms, you know that.”

It’s his turn to grin. “Do I?”

“That’s my boy,” Jay laughs, eyes soft as she squeezes his side, “It’s nice to see you smile. Remember: don’t give up.”

She’s rising to her feet when there’s a lot of sudden noise and a yell of “MUM!” from Lottie that signals the need for her intervention. For a moment, Louis is proud of his sister for assuming more of the role he held before. He closes his eyes briefly when his mother kisses him on the forehead again and watches her leave before he flings himself back onto the bed, blowing out a breath.

\---

Having been able to get away from the house for a bit but not quite ready to make the trek back to London, Louis does the only other thing he knows how to do (besides get drunk) and goes to see Stan. Luckily, he opens the door when Louis knocks and simply half-lies with “Mum’s doing my head in,” before he lets himself in.

“Sure, Louis,” Stan intones flatly, still holding the door, “won’t you come in? There’s a polite lad you are.”

Louis silently flips him off as he heads to his friend’s room, switching off his phone as his mother sends him another text. So he may have not told her exactly where he was going. Or at all. It’s fine, he’s a big boy.

He makes himself at home on Stan’s bed and pats the space next to him when his friend comes in.

“No,” he says, grabbing his arm when he tries to sit there, “please. For old times’ sake.”

It’s not a question and Stan shakes his head but he swings his feet up near Louis’ face (in his smelly socks, which serves him right) nevertheless so that they’re top and tailing like they used to at the giddy beginning of their friendship when they were barely in double digits of age. They lay for a while and it’s nice, to be away from everything, to be back to how things used to be, no matter the spike of guilt Louis feels when he thinks that. Stan must know him too well though because when he starts fidgeting and ready to sit up and explore _something_ , he speaks.

“Listen, I’ve been wondering...” he says and ploughs on before Louis can make any obvious snarky joke, “do you still fancy girls?”

Louis’ stunned for a second and then he cackles, “What kind of question is that? You ‘wonder’ some random shit y’know. Who else am I gonna fancy?”

“Says you.” he snorts, pinching Louis’ little toe, his Toms kicked off in a corner somewhere into the debris, “And I wouldn’t usually say this, mate, but there’s only one other option for you – guys?”

Louis’ giggles splutter as he tries to hold them in and fails because _this is ridiculous_. “Now you’re just talkin’ out your arse!”

“Am I?” Stan asks, too calmly for his liking, “What about Harry?”

He stops laughing and swallows hard. “He’s a mate. What’re you trying to say, _Stanley_?” he asks sharply. He gets his elbows underneath him so he can get a better look at Stan’s strangely expectant face, to gauge whether he really is just pulling his leg and he’s falling for it. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“I know _you_.” he sighs, “I know that you and other lads or you and _me_ don’t have the kind of friendship you and Harry have.”

Louis lies down again to stare thoughtfully up at the ceiling. The football stickers on the plaster have mostly been scratched off so there’s nothing to look at and distract him. In the end, he settles for, “We’re practically together 24/7. He means a lot to me, that’s all.”

“Ever thought to ask yourself _why_?”

Louis ignores him and sighs irritably, changing the subject. “I need to go back, don’t I? Fuck. Anne’s gonna kill me.”

“Probably.” Louis aims for his head with his foot, but it’s half-hearted. “What? It’s the truth. You fucked up and now you have to face it.” He feels the bed shift until Stan’s yanking him upright, hands planted on his shoulders, “But whoever’s got Harry fucked up bigger. They’ll get him back, Lou, you’ll see.”

Louis looks at him curiously for a beat then chuckles softly, “I hate it when you talk sense. Pretty scary actually. Nightmarish.”

“Oh, piss off!” Stan snaps, pouncing on him and messing up his hair. 

The thought that this isn’t much different to how Louis acts with his own flesh and blood makes him smile inwardly. They tussle until they can’t breathe then collapse in a two-boy heap. Stan stretches his arm for his phone nearby and brandishes it in his best friend’s face. “Fancy calling up 118? It’s not as much fun on my own.”

\---

Following on from a cup of tea with Stan’s mother after she arrives home from work (Louis likes doing stuff like that to Stan much like he loves to see Harry squirm when he talks about how fit Anne is), Louis trudges reluctantly back home to his to hear his mother talking somewhere nearby. At the sound of the door, she comes into the hallway with the cordless phone pressed to her ear.

“Oh he’s here now - ” she says quickly to whoever’s on the other end of the line, eyes widening initially at his reappearance then narrowing. Louis looks away, sheepish. “ – yes, I’ll tell him, don’t you worry – okay, yep – take care of yourself – bye – _and where the hell have you been_?”

Louis meets her unhappy glare to see that the phone call has ended. Her expression makes him defensive. “Don’t start,” he bites back, “I’m – ”

“Louis, you are under my roof,” she interrupts, “so the same rules still – ”

“I was at Stan’s!” he cries, breaking petulantly.

Jay blinks, confused. “Then why didn’t you just say that? And why was your phone switched off? I don’t want you swanning off anywhere you like when Harry’s – ” she cuts herself off with a sigh. “Don’t scare me like that, okay?”

Louis finds he’s powerless to stop his face changing and for a second he can’t work out what’s going on, why he feels like his face is not his own when a tremble runs through him and his mother is suddenly stood with him by the door, folding him into a hug. “Hey, hey, shush now,” she clucks and he desperately sniffs a “sorry” into her shoulder, his devil-may-care façade slipping. She always did know how to get under the wire. After a moment, she brushes his hair back and holds onto his face with both palms to look steadfast into his eyes, even though he struggles to not let her. “Listen, _listen_. That was Liam on the phone. Anne’s arrived in London and the police want to talk to her, of course. Liam said you’d all go with her later for moral support.”

“She’ll kill me for skipping out.”

“She’ll kill you once then kill you again if you stay here,” Jay points out reasonably. “She knows where I live, remember.” 

She leads them both to the kitchen and sits Louis down before flicking the kettle on. She gets one mug from the cupboard for herself when Louis shakes his head. He’s about to tell her what happened at Stan’s when she leans across the countertop and takes one of his hands between hers, kissing his knuckles. 

“I’d offer to be there too,” she says, eyes sad, as she picks up their conversation, “but I’d need to find a babysitter for the girls and you know how Granddad teases if I ask him and Nana at too short notice. Besides, I’m working nights tonight anyway. Come on,” she continues when Louis says nothing to stop her, her hand now coming up to gently push a fist to the side of his sullen face. “You’ve had your little runaway episode. Go back to London, go back to the boys. They need you. Anne needs you. _Harry_ needs you.”

“Alright, alright!” he exclaims, batting her hands away and ignoring the prickle of...something when he thinks about Harry needing him. “Christ, Mum, you’re a midwife, not a shrink. And I hate you all for being right.” She looks puzzled. “Stan.”

“Always loved that boy.”

“Liar.” he retorts then breathes in deeply, tapping a short rhythm on the counter with his fingers, “That’s settled then. I’m going back. Best get on with it, I s’pose, if I’m gonna make the next train.”

\---

As it turns out, Jay needed to call her mother and father anyway. Time was of the essence, so Louis needed a lift to the station because that’s the way he’d arrived, Half-drunk and almost incoherent with confused emotion, it gladly feels like days ago, not yesterday. If only Louis’ grandparents had been able to stop the twins from clinging to him after he’d said his goodbyes.

“Don’t go.” Daisy pleads, stuck to his hip and arms locked around his waist.

Louis smoothes her hair consolingly, “I’m sorry, sweetpea, this was just a flying visit. I have to go back to London to do some very important things.”

Phoebe looks up from his other side, “Fun things?”

He manages to pry them off and crouches, gathering a sister’s hand in each other of his. “Not really, no. _But_ ,” he adds brightly when he sees them exchange a worried glance, “it’ll be fun again soon. Be good for Mummy, okay? I’m leaving you in charge, peas.”

He pokes them at the same time with a finger each, waiting until they look down to lightly flick them on the nose and send them into happy giggles. He stands but can’t resist kissing the tops of their heads, smelling them, maybe committing them to memory – who knows how long he’ll be gone trying to find where Harry is.

He’s rudely interrupted then by his mother hanging around with the car doors open and blasting the horn.

“Keep your hair on, woman! I’m coming!” he growls, but without heat, “Sorry girls, Lou’s gotta be a grown up now.” he laughs at their displeased ‘yuck’ faces. “I’ll see you soon though. Maybe I can bring the boys next time. Would you like that?”

“Harry?” Daisy asks.

He swallows the lump in his throat at the hopeful look in her eyes and resolutely does not look at anyone else before he forces the smile back onto his face. “Yep, of course Harry. Now c’mere and gimme a cuddle.”

Jay squeezes his knee once when they eventually pull out of the driveway and he closes his eyes to blot out his sisters’ faces, ranging from a little comprehension with the oldest and the disappointment of watching their big brother leave that’s become sadly normal for the youngest.

\----

When the taxi pulls up outside the small flat, Louis thinks about telling the driver to go round the streets one more time before he has to get out. He pulls his phone from his pocket, sending a text to his mum to let her know that he’s arrived safely and is locking it again when something gives him reason to pause. His screensaver stares back at him – a silly picture of the five of them, pulling faces at the camera and squashed close in the pretence of getting them all into the frame. He’s had it for weeks now and even with Harry’s absence it hasn’t affected him too much, it’s often made him smile, but he thinks of erasing them both from the picture or the other boys disappearing from his life somehow and it hurts enough that he struggles to get rid of the sudden lump in his throat.

“Mate, are you getting out or not? The meter’s still running y’know.”

Louis blinks and his eyes find the driver’s impatient expression in the rear view mirror before he mutters an apology and forces himself to leave with his rucksack and less change in his pocket. 

The small flat stands before him and for a moment Louis wonders whether anyone is actually home because it’s all so eerily quiet. He knows there’s only way to find out and lets himself in, careful not to have the door slam to announce his presence. Even so, when he peers into the living room, Liam’s gaze shoots up like a string was pulled behind his back from where he’s standing in front of Niall and Zayn sat awkwardly on the edges of the sofa, ready to spring into action. Louis drops his rucksack on the floor just as Liam hugs him and Niall and Zayn fold over them both, simultaneously knocking the air of Louis’ lungs and letting him breathe again for the first time since he left. As much he needed to be around his mum and hear his sisters’ voices, he wants to tell them that he _is_ glad to be home and tightens his hold on any limb he can reach, hoping they know anyway.

They eventually part and Louis catches Niall looking over his shoulder, as if in guilt. It’s then that Louis sees Anne stood a few feet away, arms crossed and her eyes lowered, her face pale but blotchy in patches. Despite his insides churning with nerves and apologies, Louis takes a step out of his friends’ embrace and towards her and only distantly hears the front door open. Anne’s eyes move sidelong at the sound and Louis opens his mouth, not sure what will come out, when Paul’s voice cuts over him instead, first like normal then more hesitantly.

“The car’s outside,” he says, blinking at Louis until his surprise is masked with the usual look of concentration.

The boys mill around and Louis, between Paul at the door and Anne behind him, shifts his gaze between them.

“I’ll follow you in mine,” Anne offers quietly. 

Paul nods and disappears, the others beginning to trudge out after him at a reluctant pace. Louis takes his place at the end of the line, hyperaware that Anne still hasn't moved and closing his eyes for a second when she calls his name.

“We need to talk.” she says firmly as Louis looks over his shoulder at her and their eyes finally meet.

He checks on the boys half wedged in the doorway, but he nods them away with a smile he hopes means he’ll be following shortly with Anne too and not, well, taking a cab by himself. He has a brief flashback of the same sort of thing happening at that meeting with Syco, when David called him away from them, and remembers how he handled that. Once the front door clicks shut, Louis waits for his next cue. Anne sits on the sofa, so he follows, although they both keep enough space that someone else could sit between them. Louis looks away from the seat, hyperaware of why it stings so suddenly, and fidgets with his hands a moment later. He runs his thumb over the bitten fingernail of his index finger, crossing and uncrossing his fingers and tapping his hands on his knees before he gets too irritated even by himself to have to end it by tucking his hands tightly into folded arms across his chest. 

When Anne still hasn’t spoken and he can’t take it anymore, Louis dares to look again but is caught off guard by the fact that her eyes are already locked on his face. At first, he assumes it’s because she couldn’t see his eyes directly, but no, she seems to be fixated on the curve of his cheek and he feels the sofa dip as she tentatively moves closer. Suddenly feeling vulnerable that she can see something in him that he can’t yet, Louis casts his eyes down to his arms and that’s when she strikes, hitting him upside the head, sharp and quick.

“Ow!” he gasps, from the shock of it more than any genuine pain and, thinking there’s rightly going to be an onslaught, covers his head to protect.

However, after a couple of seconds where she hasn’t touched him again, Louis cracks an eye open from his position bent towards his knees. Her eyes are shining brightly and he feels himself respond instinctively as a hand heads towards his face then retreats to her mouth.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he tells her quickly, finally understanding, and unthinkingly tugging Anne into a fierce hug.

She’s trembling or he is, Louis’ not sure, but they hold each other until the feeling subsides. Perhaps he should feel a little ridiculous for holding a grown woman in his arms, maybe weird about it, but they both need it as much as the other and neither pull out of it for a while. Eventually though, Anne’s the first to gather herself and she cups Louis’ face in her hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, cracking under the release of pressure and the sight of her face wet with tears, “that I left, I mean. That I didn’t tell you about Harry. For everything really. I know you probably hate me for doing that to you, but I was just so - ”

“ – Scared, I know,” she interjects with a nod, “and I don’t _hate_ you, sweetheart. You weren’t to know that something was truly wrong.”

“But I – ” he splutters.

“Louis, stop. Believe me, I tried to blame you.” Anne’s hand slips down his back to squeeze his hip in comfort and apology. “I was terrified and confused and hurting and I took it out on you because you were closest, so I’m sorry too. He –Harry wouldn’t want us to fight.”

“And now?”

“Still terrified, still confused and still hurting...but at whoever’s keeping Harry from us, not at you. We need to stick together. Promise me you won’t run off again? I can’t lose any of you too.”

He watches her try to swallow the upset and desperation colouring her voice, but Louis can see it in the dark shadows under her eyes and he knows he won’t when she’s already in danger of losing her son. “I promise. I’m so, so sorry – ”

He cuts himself off abruptly with a careful bite to his lip until it stings more than the tears that crept up on him and threaten to spill. He takes a breath and his smile trembles as it papers over the cracks but Anne’s is just the same and it’s in that moment that he feels back on her wavelength and has no problem accepting the circles she rubs into his lower back with her thumb.

“Come on,” she encourages with a finger touch to his fringe that pokes out from his beanie, “We don’t want to keep everyone waiting. Maybe we can have another chat later.”

They both stand and Louis retrieves his set of keys to the flat as Anne pick up a small stack of photos from the nearest side of the armchair. They move out into the drizzly afternoon air and Anne asks Louis about the fading marks on his face, distracting them both as they start the journey to the station, already probably later than planned. He tells her more than he told his sisters, but not enough to embarrass himself, although by her quiet, weak laugh and knowing glance, he thinks ruefully that maybe he didn’t succeed. He doesn’t care, not when a little piece of the puzzle has slotted back into place.

\---

Instead of waking from a bored, fitful sleep, Harry opens his eyes to the loud noise of shouting. He blinks grittily and the shivering picks up from where it left off, the continuous damp seeping into his bones. The movement twinges his shoulder and his stomach still feels sore. His jaw is too, split open by the gag that he can’t help stubbornly biting down on.

“What d’you mean they can’t do it from here?!” Luka barks at one of the meatheads stood in front of him, at once tall and inferior, both of them framed in the doorframe. “They do as I fucking say! Christ!”

Harry openly watches as Luka seems to forget he’s even there, only across the room. Or maybe he hasn’t when, in the next second, Luka throws his mobile phone at the concrete wall at the far end of the small, dilapidated corridor and is already turning back to his man before it hits the ground and plastic showers everywhere. It’s by far the loudest sound Harry’s heard since the club and he jumps awkwardly, ashamed and puzzled but mostly intrigued by this new side to his captor. Luka never shouts.

Perhaps reading his mind, Luka takes to breathing deep for a moment and Harry stares at his chest as it moves in and out, in and out, mesmerised. Gone is the casual wear; he’s dressed in a suit and somehow looks more dangerous than ever, more in control, despite this vocal outpouring. Harry can feel his own nostrils flaring as he tries to keep down the thought of what that could mean for him, if it’s something different than the brutality of being knocked around.

“No,” Luka says, shaking his head as a hand comes up to his chin, cogs obviously turning in his mind, “No. If they’re too much of a pussy to take orders then we’ll just have to do it ourselves. _No_ airports, am I clear?” he waits for the meathead’s obedient, stiff nod before he continues, beginning to pace a little. “Get me the papers for Anda. Set them up as cargo. The boys will meet them at the other end, awaiting further instruction from me. Anyone who goes sniffing around will do good to keep their mouths shut. Nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , is to know about this. Oh and Michel? Take this back with you.” 

He stops in front of Meat-Michel - a man sturdy enough to be a bouncer with the mean eyes of a hooligan. He’s a few inches taller than Luka, who’s wirier, but that doesn’t seem to deter him from driving his knee twice into Michel’s stomach hard and he drops to his hands and knees, winded enough to grunt and smaller than ever.

“I call the fucking shots, okay?” Luka spits, “And you can tell them that once they’re safe, they’re fired. I cannot trust them with my business. Now,” he starts in a brighter voice, straightening the lapels of his jacket as Michel struggles to stand up again, “get me a new phone, not that piece of crap. I need to check in on my princess.” 

Leaving Michel to sort himself out enough to do as he’s told, Luka comes into the abandoned space that’s become Harry’s and walks confidently towards him with an insincere smile twisting his mouth. Harry still wishes he could go some way to wipe that insufferable expression off his face again. He’d succeeded temporarily once, kicking him in the lip upon capture, and Harry unconsciously shifts forward at the memory, his bound wrists rubbing together. They took his watch, he remembers mournfully as he spies the silver glint of Luka’s peeking out of his shirt cuff. Without thinking, Harry talks through the gag but, like always, it comes out as garbled nonsense.

Luka rolls his eyes. “Stop making that noise. It’s giving me a headache.”

He pauses then does it again. Luka glares down sharply at him; Harry glares up.

“Make it quick.” he relents with a sigh when neither of them does more than stare at each other for a long minute.

“My watch,” Harry rasps.

Luka looks at him blankly. “Sorry, what?”

“You took my watch. I don’t know what the time is anymore. I want to know.” Luka laughs around a sneer and ignores the request. “Please. I just – it was from – from my mum,” he lies haltingly, praying that this is the one time that it doesn’t show on his face.

He barely has to try to muster up tears for it; the thought alone of his mum is enough. Knowing what he had to deal with the first few hours and how Harry opens his mouth again with the threat of shouting raggedly for help; Luka acquiesces with another roll of his eyes, like he views Harry as truly pathetic. He crouches carefully at the side of the pillar and unties one of his wrists, mindful of the cavernous drop just below. Harry watches docilely until Luka’s other hand comes up to press against his throat to stop him from moving and the sudden freedom around the pressure on his wrists means that the pain creeps in. He shies away from the idea and then when Luka tries to tie his watch for him. At his warning glance, Harry ducks his head and swallows dryly with great difficulty. Understanding that he wishes to speak, Luka releases his throat completely.

“I just, um, I just want to hold it,” he explains demurely, “my, er – my wrists are sore.”

Loathe to encourage what he’d consider more unnecessary whining and rebellion, Luka jabs the watch into his flexing fingers but still ties his wrists tight, ignoring the stutter hitch of breath.

“You better not be weird,” he frowns, “People are counting on you, Harry, to be the best that you can be.” From squatting down, he straightens to his full height again with more smiles. “That’s why we’re going on a little trip together.”

He feels a chill run through him. _A trip_? “Where?”

“Good question, young Harry. Now that you’re willing and able, let’s play a game, shall we? It’s called ‘Guess The Country’. Clue #1: it’s hot.”

He groans, tired again. “I don’t know. Just tell me.”

“No, no,” Luka tuts, beginning to pace, his favourite thing, “play the game.”

“I – I don’t want to. Where are you taking me?”

“Okay then, Clue #2: it’s across the sea.” he chuckles, ignoring the shaky demand. “Oh, I know that’s terribly vague of me. Come on, you’re a clever boy, aren’t you? Or have you been trading on your looks all this time?”

Harry sits sullenly silent.

“Clue #3: its flag features an animal. Bzz! Time’s up, too late.” he snaps, before he’s pressing on Harry’s throat again, this time properly squeezing and squeezing until his face starts to go pink. “It’s none of your business where I’m taking you and that’s all there is to it.”

Letting go, he yanks the gag up between Harry’s teeth in the middle of his coughing and starts to walk away, humming under his breath. Harry wants to tell him to come back and he whines a little in frustration, almost not catching the words that Luka begins to sing cheerfully, his voice echoing back to him.

_Que será será...whatever will be, will be..._

He still feels dazed from the dizziness of the chokehold so it takes him a moment to remember where he’s heard that song before and when he realises his heart gives another painful lurch, climbing into bruised throat. His mum used to sing it to him. It’s an old Doris Day song, but it’s a classic, and she often told him with a laugh that when he was a little baby singing to him was the only way to get him to sleep as she remembered her mother doing the same in her childhood. If he believed in fate, he’d be inclined to think that that baby memory nudged him onto the path of loving to sing himself. Except why would Luka choose it? Not even Louis knows about his personal connection to that song, so it’s almost impossible that Luka would use it to torture him somehow. Then again, _whatever will be_ coming from his mouth sounds pretty foreboding. Distracted, Harry’s mind drifts to the boys and he begins to wonder for the umpteenth time what they’re doing. Surely they’re looking for him, that they’ve gone for help? He must admit it’s starting to feel a little more hopeless, especially if he’s going to be _moved_ soon.

It’s as if a light bulb switches on inside his head.

Feeling more clearheaded, he starts to sort through what he knows - from eavesdropped conversation to the playful clues to the song. Frantic when he comes up with an answer but his stomach swooping with the nerves that it might not even be the right one, he tries to think of how to leave a message behind, in case a rescue comes too late. Short of trying to rip the pillar out of its foundations to get his hands free, he’s realising the flaws in his detective work when his fingers tighten reflexively around something. _His watch_.

With nothing to lose and his wrists being rubbed raw from the rope straining against the pillar, Harry fumbles awkwardly along the edges of the watch for the metal clasp, a solid end that might be of use, and starts to scratch into the muddy, hardened ground little by agonising little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading thus far, lovelies. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated and keep me writing! x
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [theprincessed](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com). I like chats. :)


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am such a fail. Sorry for the long wait! Anyway, this is the only chapter that I know will be this media/Twitter heavy. I just felt like adding a sense of scale to the fic. All fan usernames are 100% fake and none of the opinions reflect my own in reality.
> 
> Another little note to prevent any confusion - the 'Dad' mentioned is Mark Tomlinson because it's my headcanon Louis would still refer to him as that, regardless of biology or divorce.
> 
> Featuring the media getting in on the act, Louis still trying to unpick his confused feelings, Harry coming face to face with the evil side of the world and the delivery of a mysterious envelope...(~9,700)
> 
>  **Warnings:** minor character death, homophobic slurs.

1D RECORD LABEL RELEASE STATEMENT ABOUT HARRY STYLES’ WHEREABOUTS: “THE SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL”  
  
So this morning, we at Sugarscape Towers woke up to some very worrying news. Syco, One Direction’s record label, has released a statement all about where the devil Harry Styles is and the news isn’t great. As we have all been busy speculating, we haven’t heard a peep or seen a curl of ol’ Hazza’s for some time now and it seems Uncle Si and co are keen to finally let us know why. Except...to cut through all the PR mumbo jumbo, the simple answer seems to be: they don’t know.  
  
Worry alert.  
  
But fear not, Scapers! Apparently, the situation is “under control” because the police (!!!) have become involved and hope to put this confusing, sad matter behind us all _very_  soon. Huzzah! They move on to ask that fans of the boys’ DO NOT under any circumstances whatsoever approach anyone you do not know and to report anything that seems suspicious. Your safety is what they and One Direction care about the most. Stay tuned for more updates on Harry and the rest of the boys as soon as we get them.  
  
To cheer us up (maybe even send a psychic link to Hazza to show how much we miss him) click below for a video of 1D’s funniest X Factor moments.  
  


\----

_@onedirection_  Official Syco Statement Released RE: Harry Styles via  _@SYCO_NEWS_  syco.ne/22PdkLf

 _@MailOnline_  WORLD EXCLUSIVE - X FACTOR STAR MISSING: One Direction’s Harry Styles goes missing as police report that the situation is under control’ bit.ly/13rSvOA

 _@TheSunNewspaper_  X FACTOR STAR STYLES MISSING bit.ly/78gl2Cm

 _@heatworld_  #FINDHARRYSTYLES #COMEHOMEHARRY

 _@GemmaAnneStyles_  Love you baby bro  _@Harry_Styles_  xxx

 _@AnneFoxyCoxy_  Yes, it’s true. Harry is missing BUT it won’t be that way for long I’m sure. Everyone is doing all they can to bring him back to us. Please respect our right to privacy always, but particularly now. Love you sweetheart  _@Harry_Styles_  xxx

 _@JohannahDarling @AnneFoxyCoxy @Harry_Styles_  Make that two mummies xx

  


From:  _Anne_  
That was hard but it’s the right thing to do. I hope you and the boys are doing okay x

From:  _Dad_  
Your mum and I love you very much. Stay strong x

From:  _Granddad_  
Keep your chin up lad. Here for a chat always x

From:  _Mum_  
Baby I’m only a text, a call or a car ride away. PLEASE remember that. The girls say hi. I love you lots poppet xxxx

\----

  
They couldn’t keep it from the fans any longer and quite frankly that didn’t want to, now that they knew the police were treating the situation not as a missing person but a kidnapping.

 _Kidnapping_.

It was still a foreign word to Louis, as he’s sure it is to the other boys too, but the fans deserved to know what they did even if it wasn’t much. Progress was slow but until they had more to go on it was supposedly to be expected.

Meanwhile, the boys had been told to lay low but also carry on as normal as much as they could. Louis had looked at them aghast at the time, despite his rational brain telling him over and over that there was nothing else for the police to really say. Things had officially turned into a professional waiting game until certain parameters had been set and he didn’t like it one bit. He was a doer, the type to grab life by the throat and live every opportunity to the last second. He was not comfortable twiddling his thumbs, especially with Harry being out there somewhere in probable real danger, so when they got the go ahead from Paul and the bigwigs that they could go out to dinner for a change of scenery and to try the whole ‘normal’ thing a couple of nights after Syco had told the rest of the world about Harry and their phones had beeped incessantly with reminder texts from their families, the foursome had jumped at the chance. So what if Louis had a slight ulterior motive, if he thought that maybe it’d stop the maddening rush of his thoughts taking up his every waking minute.

“ – so I told him about that ramp we wanted to build out back for skateboarding and he said – oi  _Louis_ , are you listening?”

Evidently, distracting himself with the outside world wasn’t working too well yet.

“Hm? What?” he blinks at Zayn sat to his left, shakes his head quickly, “Sorry, tell me again, mate – what did you say to Ant?”

Zayn’s expression melts from patience into something a little more pained and Louis has to look away because it’s edged with concern and considering his recent catalogue of meltdowns he can’t take that tonight. “Danny, Lou. I told Danny – ah, don’t matter.” he sighs after a beat.

“Louis?” Liam chimes in. He’d forgotten the other lads were there, everyone is...except Harry. “You alright?”

It’s the million pound question these days. They’re all undoubtedly a bit off kilter because the balance isn’t right, just like at Judges’ Houses when – he’s been told since – the group didn’t feel or sound as good in  _his_  absence. The memory raises the ghost of a smile, enough to reassure Liam as he’s still a little antsy from being in public again.

They’d tried to get a reservation for one of the restaurants in the city that was less frequented by big “celebrities” to keep up with the low profile shtick. Despite  _The X Factor_  being over, One Direction had already garnered a huge following and with everything that was going on with Harry it meant a continued professional presence around them as they swapped show handlers for a proper security team. The restaurant itself had the requisite ambient, dim lighting, softly playing top 40 acoustic background music and seemed fond of a dark wood look. With the little tables and overstuffed sofas for comfort by the windows, it kinda reminds Louis of the cosy feel to a coffee shop. There are of course the usual dining formations, dressed in cream tablecloths and a single flower, but they knew when they walked in that they would go straight for the sofas. However, reflecting on the last couple of days on a personal level, Louis’ not entirely sure that a window seat with all its people-watching opportunities is the best spot for him as conversation cautiously strikes up around him again in quiet murmurs and he’s glad that the boys are determined to make the most of this evening out when there’s not much else for them to do in this state of limbo. The thing is, he’s been doing a lot of that – getting lost in his head as he looks people over – since he came back from Doncaster. He’s not stupid, he understands the reason why, but the implications are difficult. Stan and his ‘wondering’, Stan poking at his friendship with Harry, Stan trying to connect the dots to a picture that’s still far from clear. It’d be easy to hate him for planting such a seed, but Louis knows that’s unfair. He wouldn’t be the first person to question his relationship with Harry and probably won’t be the last.

Reminded, Louis takes his phone from his pocket before the menu gets around to him and looks at his phone with the same helpless kernel of hope he’s increasingly got used to already blooming in his chest. It dies immediately as he sees the screen with nothing new in the last few hours to him personally and ventures onto Twitter instead, scrolling through his timeline.

  


_@purplecarrotswag101_  OMFGGGGGG OMFGGGGGG IS IT TRUE??? HARRY??? :’(((((  _@Harry_Styles @Louis_Tomlinson_ _@Real_Liam_Payne @zaynmalik @NiallOfficial_  RT  _@onedirection_ Official Syco Statement Released via  _@SYCO_NEWS_  syco.ne/22PdkLf

 _@benwinston_  He’s a smart one, that  _@Harry_Styles_. I’ve got faith that he’ll come home soon!!

 _@piper12345_  have a look at this LOOOOOOOL!! pic.twitter.com/GKDJ9lweg

 _@edsheeran @Harry_Styles_  there’s a sofa waiting with your name on it, old chum

 _@BeLlYbUtToNz_  FOLLOWWWWW MEEEE PLEEEEEEEASEEEEEEE??!!1!!11!!!!

 _@izecreamshize_  ur so gay

 _@izecreamshize_  GAAAAAAY

 _@izecreamshize_  gaaaaay hair say sumink gaaaay haaaaair

 _@MattEdmondson_  Just heard the news about  _@Harry_Styles_...I’m not sure how you lose a potential popstar, but it’s worrying all the same. Get home safe x

 _@tumbleweedsqueeze947_  limp wristd motherfucka fuckin die

 _@starlite44_  hi louis how r u 2day? :) ilysm xx

  


Niall’s voice pulls him away from the eclectic mix of tweets, asking him what he wants to eat once he meets his gaze.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, clutching tighter to his phone, “’M’not that hungry.”

He blinks rapidly and almost flinches as, in time with Liam’s furrowed brow; Zayn takes the menu from Niall’s hands and shoves it at Louis, covering the screen. “You’re not listening, but you’re eating, yeah?”

Despite being a little more forceful than the other two, he instantly counteracts it, touching Louis’ wrist with gentle fingertips. His heart and stomach pass each other like a rollercoaster daily, but Zayn’s caress to his arm calms him and before he’s aware of it, he’s agreeing to eat and points blindly at something on the laminate. As he’s sat closest to Louis, Zayn looks at him like he’s being a bit stupid in the head.

“Lou,” he says slowly, “you don’t even like mushrooms when they’re cooked. ‘Slimy, weird bastards’, remember?”

He has indeed pointed at something very heavily featuring mushrooms and was being a bit stupid in the head after all. He inhales a shuddery breath as Zayn murmurs to Liam beside him then turns to Louis again, wrapping his arm around his shoulder like a quick squeeze of a cuddle. “You’re okay,” he smiles, “enjoy the night. I’ve heard alright things about this place. Not bad company either.”

Louis finds his answering smile naturally as Zayn bumps their shoulders together and Liam and Niall across from the three of them get into a competition of how many beer mats they can flip with the back of their hands and catch off the end of their low table. It gives Louis a chance to have another look at them.

With Stan’s words fresh in his mind in the hours following his return from Doncaster, there was a small part of Louis who was at least curious about what he said. Having never really given it much thought, as he was back in the little flat, questions started popping up everywhere. What made someone attractive to someone else? What made one gender attractive for one person and not the other gender? What made all genders attractive to one person? What made friends attracted to friends, faults and all?

In the middle of trying to picture a nameless person with everything he physically has instead of boobs and a vagina, the door to the cramped bathroom opened and Louis froze. Sat on the carpet and blocking the way out, his eyes travelled up the bare, slightly hairy legs, long green towel wrapped around a narrow waist and the smooth plains of a flat chest to stop at Zayn’s damp face and hair.

“Hi Lou, what you doing down there?” he chirped, before his face fell dramatically, “Something wrong?”

“I – ” he swallowed, “I – no. Nothing’s – I’m fine.”

He got to his feet and took the stairs quickly, his face set in a grimace. He couldn’t exactly deny that Zayn was attractive but did that acknowledgment mean anything? Wouldn’t everyone with a brain think the same? Only it didn’t stop there. As if determined to confuse him until he could find a definite answer, he found himself staring at the quick blur of Niall’s fingers as he played against Louis at FIFA and really,  _really_  thrashed him for the first time in their friendship and aware of just how plush Liam’s mouth could look as he talked until it was all too much and too weird to test a theory like this.

It still is, he realises with a shiver, as he feels his mind rush back in to the present like he’s just done a lap around their corner of the restaurant in an out-of-body experience. Pushing the boys aside, his feelings to the world at large seem stubbornly silent on the matter now. Maybe Stan’s wrong. Maybe he’s got nothing to think about, maybe there is no reason why. Maybe he and Harry are just Louis and Harry and that’s it, no questions needed.

  
_@PistolsAtDawn_  ur the gayest boybanders eva omg lol stop lyin to urself  _@Harry_Styles_   _@Louis_Tomlinson_

\----

With a meal sans mushrooms, dinner is going well and Louis feels his tense shoulders relax in increments with every passing second in the presence of his boys. It almost makes him shake his head, the thought that he went to Doncaster to find his strength when it was right in front of him all along – in the way Niall laughs at something or someone he finds funny, even if it’s at an inopportune moment like through a mouthful of food, in the way Zayn reminds him that he’s never alone in this mess with just a simple touch, in the way Liam unwinds and lights up once he believes Louis feels better. Of course the strong sense of home from his mum and sisters and even Stan is welcome, but this is where he’s meant to be right now. Once he’s found, Harry will be brought back to them as a group after all and Louis’ll be damned if he’s not there with bells on to see it happen. He’s in the middle of sticking straws up his nose with his cutlery haphazardly arranged and the next morsel of food already speared when he picks up his glass before realising that it’s empty.

“Another round, lads?” he grins as he springs up, not really giving the others a chance to refuse as he shuffles past Zayn and Liam, maybe wiggling his bum in their face just because. A good meal and good company and the outside world not crashing down around them, he feels lighter than he has in days. “Maybe something a little stronger?”

“I dunno, Lou,” Liam grimaces, “we don’t want to go overboard,”

“Come on, grandda!” Niall cackles, bumping his fist onto Louis’ in agreement, “Have a drink, let loose,”

“I’ll even buy it for you  _legally_ ,” Louis winks, “Oldest perk.”

In minutes, he’s stood by the bar to wait for the bartender to serve a chattering party of women dressed in bright reds and pinks. It looks like the beginning of a hen night and he catches the eye of the one nearest to him, a tiny redhead, with a small smile. However, his gaze is pulled from her as he sees another person behind the bar comes towards him. He opens his mouth to start talking when a friendly voice decidedly not his own jumps in.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” a male voice exclaims as quick, only a couple of words in, and Louis looks to his other side, to his left. A man several inches taller than him but casually leaning onto the bar stares back at him with a little apologetic ‘o’ for his luscious mouth, his eyes round and shiny like the darkest marbles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt – I really – it’s a long order,”

He smiles, impish and blinding, scratching at his closely cropped hair and blinking with long eyelashes that could rival Zayn’s, skin smooth except for a small bumpy scar on his right cheek. In short, he’s  _beautiful_. Louis straightens as if a broom’s been shoved up the back of his shirt, realising he’s been looking dumbstruck all too late.

He clears his throat, clasping his hands tightly together in front of himself in a fidget, “Its fine. Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” he asks and Louis nods, still a bit useless and confused as to when he started thinking of guys as beautiful. He wants to tell the guy to stop smiling so brightly, like Louis’ done him such a great favour. Louis’ eyes continue to helplessly fix on him as he turns to the girl about to serve him. “Okay, can I have a –”

It really is a long list, Louis agrees distantly after a few seconds of watching the guy’s lips shape around the names of different drinks.

“ – and a double vodka and coke, please.”

Louis’ not quick enough to look away as he finishes his order, but he does so anyway when he’s caught red-handed to notice that the right side of the bar is quiet again, the hen party vanished, smiling redhead included. Damn.

“So, I guess that’s your good karma sorted for the night.” the guy’s deep voice says, bringing Louis’ attention back to him through the low noise of music and chatter, “Thanks, again. My friends can get really impatient if they don’t get their refills in seconds.”

“Sounds like me.” He says it before he thinks and it must show on his face because the guy laughs, a rumbling sound that seems to come direct from his belly. His incredibly flat belly from the way his navy polo shirt is clinging to his body.

“Yeah?” he raises a dark eyebrow but keeps his infectious, white grin, “You should’ve warned me about that before I rudely muscled in on your moment.”

He has muscles too, but seems to be trim instead of overly pumped. Like he could carry someone without being out of puff but his handshake wouldn’t break your fingers. Fit.

Louis licks his suddenly dry lips, inferiority crashing over him similar to the lack of confidence he felt only a few short months ago. The guy takes his awkward, squirming quiet in his stride, offering a hand before Louis can think to himself.

“I’m going to be here a while waiting for that lot,” he jokes, palm extended and the other forearm propping up the bar, gaze attentively on Louis, “I’m Christian.”

“I’m...agnostic?”

Luckily, Christian finds the funny side in Louis’ unfunny jitteriness, “Well, at least there’s room for you to be persuaded. Although,” he adds, as his multiple drinks start piling up on the bar, ice cubes aplenty, “I’d still like to know your actual name before I leave. I can’t carry on calling you Gorgeous in my head for the rest of the night now, can I?”

Louis’ mind is a tug-of-war of  _please do_  and  _oh no he’s flirting_ , long enough that another low wave of soft amusement from Christian passes through the short gap between their bodies, a space increasingly smaller than Louis first remembers. This time, as Louis bites his lips together shyly and his head is blank of adequate responses, Christian loses some of his playful intensity and falls back into a wide, friendly grin.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” he whispers, scrubbing a hand over his shorn head again, “I just know an attractive guy when I see one.”

“No, no,” Louis grimaces, hurriedly fumbling for his money in his jeans pocket as the barman gets round to serving him, “I mean, I’m not – it’s – thanks. Thank you. For saying that.”

“No problem, babe.” He says it amiably enough, but also seems like he senses he won’t be continuing their little conversation, not with impatient friends to deal with and how skittish Louis can feel himself being anyway. Usually he’s not too shabby at this game, but it’s never been this intense with  _a bloke_. A supremely attractive bloke apparently into the sharp features of an emotionally confused and lost nineteen year old. Louis watches him slowly slide one of the trays onto his large hand. “I better get these back to the rabble. It was nice meeting you...?”

Louis blinks, delayed, as Christian waits. “Louis. My name’s Louis.”

A parting grin lights up Christian’s face, clean shaven, his dark, dark eyes sparkling in the glow of atmospheric, intimate lighting, “Louis! Nice meeting you, Gorgeous Louis. See you around.”

Louis’ gone by the time Christian returns for his second tray of drinks, having scuttled back to the boys with the vague hope that his face isn’t aflame. Thankfully embarrassment never shows too easily on his face in a rosy blush, except after he’s set the pints down on the table for the lads, he can’t help answer the pull to look back over his shoulder, to somehow validate that he’s enough for a second glance.

“Lou?” Niall asks, licking beer off his upper lip, “Hey Louis!”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you always looking at lately?” he laughs, not unkindly.

Christian isn’t looking.

Then again, he does have to concentrate on grabbing the last of his circle’s drinks, a big, happy bunch Louis spots now down the far end of the restaurant. He lets his peripheral vision linger, so maybe he imagines the wink thrown his way as Christian’s path towards his friends gets the nearest to Louis (which isn’t very near at all).

“Nothing,” he answers, distracted, “I’m not – it’s nothing,”

“Which means it’s something,”

“Piss off, I said it’s nothing.” He shuffles into his seat and sits with a sigh, immediately contrite over the surprised blink from Niall at his firm tone, “I’m just...people-watching, I guess,” he picks up his glass and knocks it against the blonde’s in apology, tries a smile on for size. “Who knows, I might’ve a book in me. There’s that thing that says everyone has at least one book in them, yeah?”

“Sounds painful if you ask me.”

“You’ve only read half a book,” Zayn chips in from Niall’s sniggers, looking delighted at teasing Louis for a change. “And that was about football!”

“Yeah, well, trust  _him_  to make it dirty. That wasn’t me!” he giggles, waving a pointing finger at Niall as the four of them start laughing, probably harder than the situation deserves, because it’s nice to do.

At least before all hell breaks loose.

It starts innocently enough, through a family of four – two parents, two little girls – with their children recognising the boys. They’ve had an easy enough time of it that evening, the clientele too adult or too cool to bother them on their downtime, but the girls are adorably excitable and don’t ask prying questions about Harry, so they see no harm in signing a napkin and snapping a picture, until it seems to open the floodgates.

Quickly, they have people from all over shuffling up to them who, whilst largely polite, are a bit overwhelming to deal with without anybody to act as a buffer between them. It’s the last time they try and go out as a group without protection and Louis rattles off an SOS text to Paul who told them he wouldn’t be too far away if they needed him. They have to leave their meals half finished and Liam jokingly picks Niall up by his middle as he tries to down the last of his pint on the run.

If only they were able to run.

It seems that as they were dealing with the curiosity inside, word got around outside and the four of them stumble into the night to be faced with a wall of sound. Camera phones flashing in their faces from eager fans as much as the paparazzi clamouring for their attention, screams and shouts echoing down the street as they wordlessly decide to group together as a way to get into some space, Liam in front, Zayn bringing up the rear and Louis plastered to Niall’s back to shield and keep him calm. He can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against the anchor of his fingers and makes soothing noises in his ear to counteract the panic welling up inside them both, pretty much a first for Louis. He knows his head isn’t in quite in the right place, his eyes looking for Harry before he can catch himself, so as long as he concentrates on taking care of Niall he knows he’ll come through this.  


  
_@JLSOfficial_  Ohhhh no! I pray we find  _@Harry_Styles_  so so soonnnn! Stay strong lads!  _@onedirection_  Much love Ori and the boys xx

 _@tommcfly_  Horrible news about  _@Harry_Styles_. I don’t understand. He seems like such a nice guy. Me and the lads hope they find him soon. Now’s the time for some of that fan power!

 _@iNarryuNarryme_  NO NO NO THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING NO NO I JUST NO #directionerspray4harry

 

Liam looks over his shoulder at them as they get a few metres along the pavement, the crush following like an undulating school of fish, and his eyes are wide with his hands flexing by his sides. His focus elsewhere, the call that Louis wants to make as he sees someone try to box Liam in dies in his throat as his friend is shoved backwards and they all feel it as they struggle to stay upright. The screams intensify to a note of shock and defence and Zayn barges Louis’ shoulder as he squeezes past him and Niall instinctively to check Liam’s alright. Louis hears Liam’s shout of “I’m fine!” and squashes Niall into their backs as they try and move forward some more.

  


_@FrankieTheSats_  omg gutted about Harry! We need to find him every1!!! Sending so much love and kisses to you  _@onedirection_! Xxxxxxxx

 _@peachtweet_  I’m crying so much I don’t know what to do :’(((((

 

He glances up from Niall’s shoulder when their feet appear to be finding some space, but nearly trips over a stranger as Liam and Zayn jostle harder than he expects. He’s a photographer because Louis has to avoid his camera as it flies out of his grasp and bounces to the ground. Enraged at the damage, he and his competitors are clearly intent on retaliating when Louis spots a familiar shape pulling in just ahead.

“Look, boys!” he yells, pointing frantically and pushing at Niall’s back. “Car! Now! Go!”

He grabs tightly onto Niall’s hand for better purchase and so he doesn’t get lost in the ensuing chaos, approaching police sirens wailing, then after what feels like the length of a marathon, they finally reach Paul to be bundled in.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Louis offers with a shaky smile, to diffuse the tension.

Paul is focused on one thing only. “Just get in, Louis.”

 

 _@coolbeansmove_  FUCK.

\----

“Oi Harry! Heads up, mate!”

Harry turns towards the sound of Niall’s laughing yell and makes it a full two seconds before a bright yellow object hits him full in the face. The sudden force of it tips him backwards onto the concrete path running next to where Niall and Louis had been having a kickabout in the midday sunshine with some of the other Groups but, as he blinks dark spots out of his eyes and shakes back his curls, he sees his bandmates race towards him with their hands outstretched, placating.

“Oh fuck, are you okay?” Niall exclaims, grabbing one of Harry’s arms to lift him to his feet. Louis takes the other side with his mouth set in a thin line and Harry’s already learnt that the few times he’s seen that expression on his face it’s meant that he’s holding back upset, but right now his eyes are sparkling and a tremble runs through him like he’s keeping in conflicting laughter whilst still trying to help.

Harry sighs. “Go on.”

A small part of him expects to have to push more, but Louis’ powerless to resist as he squeezes Harry’s bicep. “I’m sorry!” he blurts out, giggling, “I just – oh god – he said heads up and it went - and you – you – ”

“What was I meant to do?” he frowns, but his lips are already twitching traitorously. “He called my name.”

“Step out of the way, maybe,” Niall cackles, poking his shoulder, “like a normal person,”

“Oh no, mate,” Louis chirps breathlessly, hand clutched to his own chest. “I thought we discussed this at Harry’s – he ain’t normal,”

“Hey!” Harry pouts, “You’re one to talk,”

His mouth drops then morphs into a grin. “Ooh, getting feisty now? I like it.” Before either of them can say anything else, Harry's left faintly blushing as one of the older guys from F.Y.D comes wandering over to ask where the ball went. “Dunno, over there somewhere,” Louis flaps a hand dismissively and Harry can only stare at his profile in disbelief because he already knows how much football means to him and he’s basically  _not caring_. “Y’know, actually, I think me and Niall are gonna take Harry back up to the house and get him checked out.”

“No, no,” he starts to protest, “look, I’m fine,”

“Listen, you might have concussion.” Louis is as adamant as ever, but it’s only when the three of them are slowly walking away that he leans into Harry’s ear to whisper, “I was bored anyway. What d’you say to a trip to the beach? And pizza for after?”

Whilst they’re not in Italy for the authentic stuff, Marbella in Spain is close enough and might even help settle his nerves. They’re at the Judges’ Houses stage of the competition and tomorrow is the day when newly-formed One Direction has a shot at making it to the live finals. Everyone is simply trying to make the most of the opportunity and have fun at the same time and what better way than playing games in the garden of this massive villa, sunbathing on the nearby beach and scoffing plenty of food.

As it turns out, it isn’t Harry that needs medical attention that day. Escaped from any football injury other than a red bruise on his forehead that’s easily hidden by his floppy curls, he and the other boys convene outside Simon’s place to head down to the beach together. Liam arrives with guilt all over his face as two crew members from the show armed with a camera and boom microphone trail behind him and Zayn.

It’s all fun and games until Louis starts swearing a blue streak. He thinks he’s stepped on something and there’s a commotion as Niall comes barrelling over late, having been distracted into conversation with a pair of pretty Spanish girls in shorts and flip flops, amid Louis’ whining protests that it’s “probably nowt,” and that he’s actually “fucking fine, Jesus, don’t be so dramatic”. Harry blinks evenly at him to convey his thought of irony after his loudly yelling display, but Louis catches Zayn’s disbelieving raised eyebrow instead and soon quietly relents to being dragged out of the water so they can all survey the damage. They find a growing smear of blood underneath his foot but can only watch with dumbfounded expressions as Louis stands on his good leg and uses his balled up t-shirt to wipe away the evidence.

“There,” he says, visibly biting down on his grimace, “All gone, all better.” His shoulders slump on a sigh when he sees their unconvinced faces. “Ugh,  _alright_. I s’pose you’ll want to go back now.”

Except it takes a further trip to the swimming pool inside the confines of the villa with the girl groups, where Harry sees Louis proudly showing off his injury like he’s not bleeding on the grass, and a near-disaster of an almost fainting spell as they meet for dinner in the house for Louis to finally admit defeat. Harry immediately puts himself forward to go with him and one of the team because he feels like he ought to do  _something_  to help, but has to settle for a one armed hug and a lame croak of “you’re in charge” as Louis hops his pale-faced self to the local hospital.

It feels like an eternity until Louis’ return and even though the crew film it in some attempt to create drama for the show, the way that Harry throws his arms around him and briefly tucks his face into the warmth of his neck is entirely real as in that moment he realised that the burgeoning friendship between the five of them was a huge factor in enjoying this opportunity that they’d been given. He’s so relieved for Louis’ health and yes, that the group can perform as planned the following afternoon, but he still ends up monopolising Louis’ time once he’s been suitably fawned over by everyone.

That was earlier and now, at early evening, their plans have changed.

Harry’s suggestion of pizza at the local restaurant went out the window when he’d spotted the way Louis was still limping awkwardly on a wound he’s not supposed to cover as he valiantly tried to look presentable.

“Hey,” he cleared his throat when his voice came out surprisingly gentle. “We could stay here? Wait a while, order a pizza and eat by the pool?”

Louis frowned, clutching a baby blue polo shirt in his hands that might’ve matched his eyes. “But I thought you wanted to go out?”

“Not when you’re like this,” he half-laughed, nodding at the swollen edge of Louis’ bare foot. “Honestly, it’s fine. I just want to hang out with you.” he added hesitantly, as if he shouldn’t make such an admission.

They waited until the older members of the show category trickled back into the villa to probably get drunk before casually taking their place by the pool. They’d invited the other boys, of course, because even if Harry wanted some quality time with the boy who was quickly becoming his best friend, he was still polite, but they’d all begged off with reasons like an early night before tomorrow’s big day or X-Box marathons with a few of the twenty-somethings.

They sit next to each other with the pizza box in between them, creating a space that somehow feels wrong since they’ve slept sandwiched together on the floor of Harry’s stepdad’s bungalow, but he says nothing in case he sounds strange. In fact, as the day calms into an evening with a sky of golds and purples, they’re uncharacteristically quiet as they vaguely pick at the food but mostly find their eyes drawn to the horizon and the slice of the blue, blue sea in the distance.

“By the way, how is it?” Harry says eventually, over the buzz of crickets. Louis glances at him curiously, so he nods down to where Louis’ knee and bad foot is pulled up to his chest whilst his other calf and both of Harry’s lazily swipe through the pool water. “Your foot. Does it still hurt?”

Louis grins so wide his eyes nearly disappear. “I’m high on painkillers if that answers your question.” Harry nods as Louis’ shoulders relax into a contented little sigh. “I feel pretty good actually. Here I am, on a free holiday with my new best mates, waiting for my future to be decided in less than 24 hours. Better than what I was doing anyway, whatever happens.”

“Yeah.” Harry mutters, picking up his next slice of pizza.

During their early bonding, he’d heard Louis freely admit to the group that he’d just wanted to see if he could get a Yes from the judges at his first audition, especially as he’d tried and failed in a previous year to get anywhere at all against a backdrop of currently holding onto his A Level prospects by his fingertips and jumping from weekend job to weekend job. He’d said it in a dismissive rush complete with blasé hand gestures, as if filling his side of the conversation by being self-deprecating would stop anybody else asking questions. If it was out there like he had nothing to hide, including his bad habits and weaknesses, there’d be nothing left for anyone else to say.

Harry suddenly feels a burst of confidence surge up within him big enough for the both of them and he leans forward abruptly to grip Louis’ wrist flat against his thigh. “We’re gonna do it, Lou.” He whispers, brow lowered in fierce determination. “Tomorrow. We’re gonna do our best and it’ll be great.”

Louis meets his eyes before a giggle makes him cover his mouth with the back of his hand and Harry blinks, self-consciously wiping at his chin just in case he’s smeared in cheese grease, but Louis shakes his head. “It’s just – you look like an angry kitten, it’s so funny. No, no, hey! It’s okay,” he adds, reaching out, as Harry fights his blush, biting his lip. “Of course you’re right, love. Me, you and the lads, we’ll smash it I’m sure. Got this far, innit?”

He clenches a fist in Harry’s checked shirt to yank him into his side and Harry pushes the pizza box out of the way to narrowly avoid sitting in it as Louis’ arm settles around his shoulders. He sinks into the embrace immediately, already used to the frequency with which Louis doles out his affection and absolutely preening under it. Truth be told, he’s been trying to convince himself just as much that they can get through to the live finals and the validation that he’s not crazy for wanting it so bad is lovely, almost calming. If Louis agrees then it must be possible.

“You’re so cute when you’re determined,” he hears him from where his chin is resting on top of Harry’s ducked head.

But he’s cheeky too. “Only then?”

He squeezes Louis’ waist once, to show that he's just answering back for the fun of it, and nuzzles his sun-warmed nose up under the hinge of his jaw. He feels contentment wash over him as the evening slowly ebbs away to leave them locked together and unwilling to let go. When they haven’t parted a full minute later, Harry’s stomach fizzes and he unthinkingly searches for Louis’ hand, stroking his forearm on the way down. He hears a quiet hitch of breath above and the scent of tomatoes, sea and something spicy but fresh close by making his heart thud harder inside his chest. He drops their hug at the next moment in the hope that his body won’t give him away if he puts space between them again, but his gaze flicks to Louis anyway.

His face is a bronzed statue and eyes bright amber in the melting rays of the faraway sunset and Harry is at first paralysed then magnetised as he sways forward. He shuts his eyes before he’s even made a move, his body yo-yoing giddily when he doesn’t quite catch Louis’ mouth like he wants and Louis helps him, his bottom lip dragging in-between both of Harry’s to slot home. Electrified, Harry clutches at Louis’ hip, tracing the bone and lean muscle everywhere as they tilt their heads and deepen the kiss.

Harry’s sure he heard once that a lack of breathing space during kissing can cause dizziness and he can feel how light-headed he is getting now. He thinks he could easily get addicted to it if that meant more lovely kisses from Louis, even as the edges of his vision start to crackle and the rush of his blood fills his ears. It’s so loud that it soon makes him vaguely queasy, like a concentrated shot of stage fright, and he twists away a fraction to bodily tell Louis to stop a minute, but he seems oblivious, nipping at his lip hard and sharp. Harry squeezes his hand more urgently because that actually rather hurt and not in a sexy way, but his bones suddenly seem like they’re made of air, air that Harry can’t steal for himself as one by one his senses are falling and fading until –

 

Harry comes to gasping for the lost breath, expression frozen open, and taking another second to register the hand coming towards his cheek before flinching away just in time. That explains the pain then.

Always teetering between that and exhaustion, he’s not sure if a heady mix of surprise and confusion pulled him back into reality and the true present (was that snatches of a real memory or a dream? Or  _both_?), a sixth sense of what was about to happen, or the physical feel of the previous slap to his cheek, but finds he doesn’t much care when his tied hands close into fists to touch the metal links of his watch with an inward sigh of relief. Good. Still there.

Luka’s polished shoe gives his thigh a pointed nudge. “Hey, listen, it’s your lucky day,” he says to the top of his bowed head as he pulls the gag from between his teeth and then takes a step back, Harry mentally stamping on the swoop of joy in his chest before it can even take hold because he knows any sort of kindness from this man hasn’t yet meant anything good in the long run. “Come on now. Don’t you want to know why?”

Looking at a spot of mud that’s started to dry out, Harry tilts his pinkie down to brush the uneven ground and where he’d began to scratch until all that his body had been put through had got the better of him and he’d let his eyelids fall closed. He knows he can’t do more with Luka here, but the reminder that finally he knows something that his captor doesn’t buoys his mood enough that he meets the gaze with a careful, gentle shrug.

“I’m sure you going to tell me anyway,” he pauses, torn how he might take it before licking his chapped lips and muttering a quiet, begrudging, “sir.”

“Oh!” Luka gasps, eyes gleaming, “I like that. I like that very much, Harry. I knew you’d catch on quick. There’s a good boy you are.” His palm moves towards his cheek and Harry clenches his whole body tight to stop the automatic flinch, his posture almost sagging as Luka gives a light squeeze to his undamaged shoulder and nothing more. Harry watches him motion towards the door. “I might even say you’ve earned this.”

The sound of several sets of footsteps quietly but briskly approach and Harry’s head snaps up in alarm as he feels hands start to untie him. He knows not to hope for too much from the last time that happened, so lets the small group of four females and one young man near his age silently release him. He makes no effort to move once they’ve finished, so Luke gestures again and Harry grunts and hisses through his teeth as he’s hauled to a stand on wobbly legs.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Luka says, getting up close to his face, smile gone, “these lovely ladies are going to dry you off, help you into some nice, clean clothes and they’re going to do something about all those unfortunate marks you’ve somehow managed to get all over that pretty little face of yours.” Harry feels his eyebrow twitch in disbelief but schools his expression quickly. Luka still looks at him like he’s won, whether he reacts negatively or not. “Then I’m going to need to take your picture. You should be used to that by now, right?”

Instead of answering and at the risk of speaking out of turn, Harry moves his eyes warily to the only boy in the group. “What about him? What’s he doing here?”

“Well done, that’s a great question and one I’m glad you asked!” Luka continues brightly, condescendingly patting his cheek. He walks towards the other young man, grabs his shoulders and leads him to a stop a few feet directly opposite Harry. He raises the boy’s arms in front of him, shaping his fingers unseen. “It’s his job to hold this.”

He steps away to reveal the scene and the boy looks just as shocked and immediately nervous as Harry, a sleek, black pistol expertly placed in his two hands and aimed right at him. The boy is already shaking, the barrel of the gun wavering as he breathes and Harry can’t help it as a small well of pity springs up in his heart because the boy looks exactly like he feels inside and, he realizes as he stares back, similar on the outside too, with his face cut and faintly bruised like he’s had a head start and time to heal. He wonders how long that will last. He’s dark haired and neat, naturally slender like Zayn, but has clearly been put through the mill and it’s the same for the girls as they diligently work around his frozen form, their gazes hollow and circled purple.

“Couldn’t have a repeat performance of last time, of course.” Luka says casually, taking Harry's gaze away from the girls with a grip on his chin that makes him wince. “And to make sure nothing…untoward happens because of this darling boy we have here, there is back-up.”

Harry tries his best to swallow his fear, nostrils flaring with held breath, as another one of Luka’s meatheads comes striding through the doorway and takes his place next to the boy, two weapons now trained on his forehead. He wishes Luka’s hand hadn’t moved, pressed to his damp chest.

“That’s it,” he chuckles lowly as he feels Harry’s heartbeat kick into double speed. “You should be scared. It’s natural when there’s not one, but two guns pointed at your head, an element of uncertainty as to who will shoot first. Let’s hope it’s neither, eh? Be a good boy, Harry.”

He knew he was wishing uselessly that he’d be afforded a bit of privacy as he’s taken care of for the first time in days and he looks down at his dirty socked feet when Luka stays in the room, barking at him to keep his head raised as the target and the camera shutter noise of his phone sporadically clicks to capture the scene from beginning to end.

It’s the most humiliating experience of his life, stripped bare emotionally, even if his clothes are quickly and efficiently replaced. He hates the swirl of gratitude because, although he’s dressed in the near identical items of a white shirt and black jeans, it’s definitely warmer than the sopping, bloodied mess of his own. Delicate bird-boned fingers lodged into his armpits, the girls ease him down onto the hard floor and give him a further moment of much-needed respite as they set about tending to his wounds. They stare right through him or maybe they’re frightened of what could happen if they react in a way that somehow displeases, so he stops trying to make eye contact as the blood is wiped away and he emerges marginally like a clean member of the human race again.

With a flick of his wrist, Luka summons one of the girls over to him and takes the object she’s holding as the rest stand in an obedient line. Harry blinks rapidly into the flashes as Luka pulls his arm from where it’s protectively curled up to his injured shoulder and snaps a quick succession of photographs, lingering on his face. He hands the camera back to the girl but grabs her bare ankle as she turns to walk away. Harry’s distracted by her visible shudder as Luka crouches over him to unsheathe a small knife from his sock and he hardly feels it as a lock of his hair comes away in his hand.

“Proof.” he says, nodding to the meathead behind them. “You’re the talk of the town right now.”

The meathead comes closer to pocket the hair in a clear plastic bag and cocks the gun at the girl with the camera to make her move. As the meathead walks to the doorway and the line of girls scuttle through, Harry glances between the boy and his tear-streaked, horror-stricken face and watches Luka put his phone away and tug on a pair of leather gloves from his suit jacket.

“Thank you,” he says to the dark haired boy, squeezing his tiny waist as he carefully moves behind to lift the gun from his trembling hands. Harry has no doubt he’d drop to the floor like a rag doll now if Luka wasn’t there to hold him up. “You helped a great deal. Now it’s time to say goodbye.”

“Bye,” he whispers to Harry after an uncertain pause, eyes sad and round.

“Off you pop,” Luka adds gently with a pat to his non-existent rump.

Harry watches from his seat in front of the pillar as the boy goes to follow the girls and Luka switches the gun’s aim from Harry to the unaware boy. Before he can react at all – yell, distract,  _something_  – Luka smoothly flicks off the safety and fires once, twice, thrice. The boy crumples after the first with barely a sound, hitting his knees and falling face first into the dusty concrete as the second and third ricochet around the empty, cavernous space to mingle with the anguished, surprised shriek of the girls in the distance. Harry would’ve been one of them, the sharp cracks of noise deafening in his unprotected ears, if he hadn’t bit down hard on his lip instead and tasted more blood. He grits his teeth to stop his chin from wobbling and tears spilling, but one escapes and runs down his cheek as he blinks and struggles to look up at the man responsible  
.  
He swallows down the rush of bile. “Why? He was just a kid,” he croaks, his arm throbbing from where he raised it to cover his bent head and ears. “You – the – the safety? It was on – me?”

He hopes he’s making sense, shock chilling his bones like he’s still in wet clothes, but Luka is horridly calm. “Congratulations. You’re his replacement. He’d performed his purpose and you’re far more useful. You’re only beginning your journey with me, Harry, but I really can end it any time I want. Tell me, do you like the sun?”

Still feeling sick with disgust, Harry ignores him and stares at the ground as he hears the drag of a body pulled into the corridor whilst Luka’s hands bind him to the pillar and pull up the gag. He almost expects him to snatch the watch still in his grasp, letting out a shallow breath when he doesn’t.

“We’ll be out of here soon, I promise.” he says instead, coming around to briefly cup his cheek.

With his captive secured and nothing more to say, Luka walks out and gives no indication as to whether he hears the sob that Harry can’t quite keep in.

\----

Sitting in front of the TV, Louis taps idly through the text messages on his phone and wracks his brain for how to reply to them. From popstars he met ‘that one time’ months ago offering support all the way up the pecking order to Harry’s family wanting to keep in touch since Anne had to return to Cheshire, it’s a minefield for what to say. “Thank you” and “you too” sound so unintentionally hollow. Things are “moving along” in the investigation, the police say, but the delicate nature means they won’t tell Louis or the other boys what that’s meant to  _mean_  exactly. Apparently that will come when the time is right. He only hopes for their sakes that Anne, Gemma and Robin know more.

  


From:  _Gemma_  
How are you coping Lou? I don’t know how much longer I can take this. I’m trying to be strong for Mum, but...If you ever need to talk...x

From:  _Stan_  
Mate I hope you’re still in London. Did Anne kill you??? If so I’m taking that *thing* you promised me ten gazillion years ago! jk jk. Nah mate gimme a call when you feel like it yeah?

  


Louis sighs heavily and throws his phone onto the empty seat next to him, pulling his knees up to his chest. It’s Sunday, two days after the media circus at the restaurant and they’ve been cooped up ever since. No one blames Paul for reporting what went down; it’s been his job to look out for them since they met, as protector, tour manager, time keeper and father figure all rolled into one unimpressed Irish package, but it does mean that security is tighter than a miserly ruler. Paul has minions now. Ordinarily, Louis would test and stretch them for a laugh, but that spark seems to be missing these days.

“ – Now for a missing person’s report that has already garnered much expected and needed media coverage,” the TV murmurs in the background, volume turned low.

Louis glances sluggishly at the screen before his head snaps up at the sight of one of the police officers who had interviewed him about Harry appearing on screen. He listens in a daze and barely blinks as conversation between the police and the presenter continues, detailing Harry’s vital statistics and how long he’s been missing. Louis chews on his lip as he struggles not to throw the remote at the TV because he knows its best that the public don’t know the whole truth yet, he knows in a tricky situation that panic would be bad, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear people talk like Harry’s gone for a stroll and not returned home rather than held against his will by some deranged psychopath.

“ – And this is Harry Styles, correct?” the woman presenter asks in a gentle, calm voice.

“Yes, that is correct.” the police officer nods, “The public will know him as being part of a group on the talent show  _The X Factor_  and we, at Scotland Yard, are very much hoping that the high profile nature of his case will make this appeal for information all the more successful. We understand that he was last seen by his friends at Oceana nightclub on West Street in central Brighton, talking to a short female between the ages of 18-22 with dark, bobbed hair.”

At the mention of the girl and with his eyes burning from his stare, Louis blinks blurry eyes to feel a sudden tear roll down his unshaven cheek. He hadn’t even realized that that was happening and nearly jumps a foot in the air when, seemingly out of nowhere, a hand rests warmly on his shoulder from behind. He hadn’t even heard Zayn come in to the room and he looks at him in teary-eyed shock but Zayn’s still focused on the TV, eyes dark and an unlit cigarette between the fingers of his other hand. They listen together as the people in a brightly-lit London studio wear sympathetic expressions and constantly repeat Harry’s name, the clothes he was last seen wearing and the girl’s description until that’s all that’s in Louis’ head again, never mind the rest of the home audience –  _mystery girl, white shirt, black jeans, Harry Styles, Harry Styles, Harry Styles, HarryHarryHarry_  –

The room falls deathly silent after Zayn makes a move more graceful than Louis’ ever known him to be, sliding over the sofa to mute the TV and to pull Louis into a cuddle. He resists the arm around his shoulders at first, feeling guilty and embarrassed like he should be stronger, he has to be strong for all of them, but Zayn is quietly determined as always and waits until Louis reluctantly sags into his warm grip.

“You need to believe you did what you could,” he whispers, lips pressed to his hair, “We all did and that’s what matters. Stop torturing yourself, bro, please.”

After a long pause, Louis eventually hums his assent from underneath Zayn’s chin, rubbing his nose into his collarbone and startling a tentative giggle out of both of them at the touch of his snotty nose. He’s saved of replying with anything more substantial by the interrupting rattle of the letterbox opening and Niall’s garbled shout of claiming whatever it is. Very few people know this temporary address, so Louis and Zayn exchange a confused, wary look and wordlessly decide to go and see what the fuss is about.

They find Niall right next to the door, licking his fingers clean of something before he pulls a medium-sized manila envelope from the slot. Liam arrives and throws Louis an eyebrow furrow of concern, but he counters with a weak smile, feeling better already from Zayn’s cuddle, and keeps his attention on Niall as he carefully opens the envelope. Black marker pen covers one corner as they see it’s been forwarded from Brighton unopened and Louis can feel how they’re all holding their breath as Niall pulls out a single piece of photo paper.

They gasp loudly and stumble backwards a step, grabbing for each other’s wrists as Niall drops it, the image no less horrific now that it lies on the floor. Staring up at them is Harry in a way they never wished they had to see, as the picture shows him from the torso up, bruised, cut and bloodied. Even the matted curls hanging limply around his face can’t disguise the blackened eye, swollen lip and the helplessness radiating from every pore, despite his clothes somehow being almost spotlessly clean. The quality is a little fuzzy, as if taken quickly in the spur of the moment from a camera phone and when Louis forces himself to glance again; he can see the shape of a possible small hand in the frame, before realizing that that is for the police to debate. Harry isn’t their bandmate, one of their best friends, the person they feel the strongest need to look after.

“I can just – ” Liam says, bravely crouching down to pick it up and do something with it, to at least get it out of their sight.

However, before he can, Zayn grabs his arm. “Wait, look. There’s something on the back.”

Intrigued despite themselves and desperate for more answers, the four boys gather around the photo as Liam turns it over. Right at the edge in neat, typed font is the words:

  


**With the right motivation, he sang like a bird. Tread carefully.**

  


Louis’ phone vibrates in the pocket of his sweatpants as he struggles to know how to react to any of that. His first instinct is to ignore the call for his attention in favour of the puzzling, chilling warning, but in the next split second he is reminded not to because it could be Important and so, distracted, he thumbs open the newest message.

 

From:  _Mum_  
Hi baby. Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Just checking in. Is everything alright? Xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading thus far, lovelies. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated and keep me writing! x
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [theprincessed](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com). I like chats. :)


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally move fast with not one, but two rescue plans, Luka the kidnapper still loves to play mind games with everyone and Harry has a welcomed flashback to a happy memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo...hi. Long time no see, ugh. As you can probably guess, this fic is still pretty difficult for me to write (because I'm essentially writing 3 stories in one wtf), but I said I've never left a fic unfinished and I'm doing all I can to keep that from happening!
> 
> Some motivational writing posts on tumblr and my special kidnap music playlist helped me get inspired. Thanks to everyone who has sent me messages or left comments in the past year to try and help this thing along. This one's for you x
> 
> You might want to get your tissues ready as well. I cried writing parts of this lol. And whilst editing lol. #sap
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: **drug use with the aim to incapacitate, implied major character death** (don't panic!!)

Louis’ life has a different speed to it these days. 

It should be fast-paced and full of more excitement than he ever thought possible because of the amazing opportunities he and his new friends have been given, but it’s all been derailed. Instead, it’s slow and frustrating and all Wrong with a capital W because Harry’s not here to share in everything. That fact still plays in a loop in Louis’ head, unable to shake it from the back of his mind through mundane chores and glaringly obvious when he’s not.

Like now, as the police traipse through their flat and stand around whispering their thoughts until their voices and echoing footsteps join in with the hum in his brain and he needs to jump off the sofa, can’t do anymore of this sitting and listening, watching numbly as people with more authority than him try to carefully pick their way through this clusterfuck of a situation.

He can’t even move that far, resigned to loitering in the hallway by the front door and getting in the officers’ way until he feels a cautious touch to his shoulder and he turns with his hand still obsessively fixing his fringe.

“Lou? What’s the matter?”

Louis sighs at Liam and catches Zayn’s eye briefly from behind him, gaze silently worried. Niall’s disappeared somewhere, but he knows he can’t have gone far because _they won’t let them_. He’d regret their decision to call the police round after the incident with the picture if it didn’t continually prod them to find Harry, damn it. 

He grimaces and rips his arm from his friend’s reach, feeling like the walls are nearer than they were a few seconds ago, “They won’t – I can’t – ”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Liam’s posture straighten and his hand flatten to his shoulder again. “Louis, take it easy, okay?”

“I don’t want to fucking take it easy!” he snaps suddenly, yelling and stumbling backwards, clocking a few of the officers sparing him a glance for his outburst. Not wanting to be talked to by such strangers, he moves in and lowers his voice. “I can’t ‘take it easy’ anymore,” he hisses, “Sitting here is doing my head in and fuck knows what these idiots are trying to plan without telling us! I can’t stay here for our protection when Harry has none. We know him, they don’t, and he’s all alone out there and I just – ” great, now he’s rambling and can’t seem to stop as his emotions start rising to the surface. “I can’t.” he croaks, deflating at the look of frightened shock on Liam’s face.

The three of them stare at each other in bewilderment, the hope they feel every time the police comes round dwindling more and more.

“Hey lads. I think I have an idea,” comes Niall’s remarkably cheery voice from behind them. 

At first, Louis doesn’t see that he’s holding his phone up and even then he doesn’t particularly care. “Niall, I love you, mate, you know I do, but not now, alright?”

“No, listen,” he demands, coming forward and making them huddle by the door, “ – actually, really just _listen_.”

Louis didn’t realise before, but his phone is open to the app that he sometimes sees Niall messing around with when he’s got his guitar on his lap, recording riffs and brainstorming ideas like the talented musician he is. He presses Play now and it crackles to life with murmuring voices. After a few seconds, Louis frowns at him. “Why does it sound like you’re recording through a wall? It’s all muffled and weird,”

Niall shakes his head with a ghost of a smile and pauses the phone so he can explain. Clearly it’s important enough that they don’t miss a thing. He opens his mouth then seems to think better of it, casting a furtive look at the uniforms around them and motioning them back into the living area. He sits down on the sofa – always back to sitting on the bloody sofa – and Louis squeezes quickly into the space next him, much to the annoyance of Liam who chooses not to protest because he’s too intrigued by what Niall’s found out to argue over the seating arrangements. He and Zayn end up kneeling on the floor, closing ranks around Niall’s phone like it’s something precious.

“Okay, so,” Niall whispers with this pleased little grin on his face, “I was down the hall, having a piss – ”

“TMI, much?” Louis groans.

“Lou, shut up,” he giggles but Zayn almost ‘ooh’s at Louis because he’s just been told by Niall of all people to stop talking.

“Fine, fine,” he shrugs, folding his arms, “Carry on.”

“As I was saying, I was going for a piss and I’m minding my own business, keeping an eye on my aim because there’s police here and me ma’ would never forgive me for being a dirty boy – ” he blinks as if he’s realised by himself that he’s already going off track and starts the recording again. “When I hear this, somewhere outside the door...”

_“Well, I think we should call MisPers and have them take the case entirely. I mean, what does Sarge think he can do really? At this point?”_

_“Yeah, I know what you mean, but it’s a cool thing to say you’ve been involved in, innit? ‘I helped find kidnapped Harry Styles’ Who knows, maybe we’d get a medal or something – ”_

Zayn snorts, ignoring Louis’ glare. “Fat chance, bro, we ain’t that important,”

“Shush, that’s not everything.”

_“ – So I heard that they’ve widened the search outside where they think he was lured, taken, whatever.”_

_“Really? Where’d you hear that?”_

_“Does it matter? Mate, this means it could go European-wide or even international! I heard somethin’ about the industrial estate in Uckfield being a starting point for the next search and that Sarge wanted to get a team down there pronto. Hey, let’s go for a cuppa and a cig and see if we can get in there because we’re sure as hell –”_

There’s a semi-loud clattering and then nothing. Three pairs of eyes swivel to Niall and his sheepish face. “I dropped my phone under the sink,”

“Niall!”

He placidly waves away their outrage. “They really did leave after that, it’s fine. There was nothing else to record, but I couldn’t wait to come back and tell you. Lads, we have our own lead!” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, processing yet another wave of hope, until Louis has to say what he’s thinking.

“We need to rescue Harry.”

His eyebrows rise into his fringe at Liam’s words that overlapped his. They had their problems whilst on the show, didn’t see eye to eye basically ever, but Louis’ forgotten it now and even moreso just then and he flings his arms around Liam’s neck in relief.

“Oh thank god! I thought you’d think I was crazy,”

Liam’s hands squeeze his waist, “Of course not. We’ll show this to the sergeant, let him know we know the plan of action and tell them to get a move on – ”

Louis abruptly pulls away, expression pinched and stormy, “No. No, absolutely not. _We_ need to do something. Don’t you get it? They’re not doing anything, they don’t care. It doesn’t matter to them how long Haz’s out there, with these psychopathic fuckwits,”

“Louis, we can’t. We don’t know the first thing about rescuing someone! I’m not arguing with you on this. It’s not happening...and,” he hesitates, uncertainty colouring his voice and his eyes pleading in that puppy dog way of his, “if you try, you’ll be trying without me.”

Louis hears Niall’s sharp intake of breath and Zayn’s mutter of “oh now you’ve done it,” but he doesn’t feel like fighting actually, daring Liam to say that again. In fact, he doesn’t feel like doing or saying a lot of things that perhaps he would’ve in the past.

“Okay,” he mumbles, holding his arms around his middle as his jumper falls over his hands. “Be like that. See if I care.”

He heads swiftly to his room, desperately needing to be alone.

\--

That night, Niall and Liam brush their teeth whilst standing shoulder to shoulder in the tiny bathroom mirror. With Zayn waiting in front of the TV for one of them to finish in the small room, they’re acting on autopilot and the tension in the air is palpable. They’re fine with each other, but with heads full of a possible new chapter in finding Harry, they can be forgiven for being a bit more on the quiet side.

Eventually, Niall is the first to spit in the sink and shifts anxiously to pick at his thumbnail. Liam’s always reminding him not to bite his nails. “He’ll be alright, won’t he?” he whispers, looking over his shoulder to indicate the friend they haven’t seen come from his room since that afternoon.

There’s a long enough pause that Niall lifts his hand to his mouth to start biting but Liam catches his wrist, rubbing his thumb against the bone in slow circles. “Yeah, Lou’s fine. If we stick together we can get through this, all of it. Promise.”

He pulls him in for a one-armed cuddle, kissing the top of his head to centre himself, to make himself believe his own words when his faith in them is so shaky.

Liam goes to follow Niall out to tell Zayn that the bathroom is free, but bumps into him just outside the door. Niall shuts himself into his own room and then it’s just the two of them being awkward in the hallway.

“You can’t keep making promises y’know,” Zayn says sagely.

Liam sighs, “What else do I do? Tell the truth? ‘Sorry, I think we’ve lost Harry forever, too bad’? Promises are the only thing I’ve got to give right now, Zayn. Lou’s still not right and I don’t know how to keep him from getting into any more crazy antics or ideas. Niall isn’t himself either, his hands are gonna be in bits soon. None of us are. It’s tearing us apart and I don’t want – ”

“Hey,” Zayn interrupts; planting both his hands on Liam’s broadening shoulders. “You can talk to me. This group isn’t your responsibility. Louis already blames himself for letting Hazza go with that girl. We need each other more than ever, so _I_ promise to look out for you, okay? Bring it in.”

In the room nearest to the bathroom, Louis turns over in bed, his face wet and snotty from silent tears he hadn’t cared was falling until his face became all swollen and disgusting. If this was any other time, he knows the lads would laugh at him because his cry face is pretty funny in the abstract sense, but it’s a terrible time and he’s still not up to seeing anyone. If he could go to sleep, tomorrow is a brand new day, but no matter what Liam says and how hard he knows they’re all worrying about him, Louis can’t get rid of the thought that he could be doing more to help Harry.

The feeling keeps him up past sunrise when exhaustion finally wins, his mind reeling from ideas and plans to get Harry back.

\--

It’s at midday when Louis stumbles into the kitchen to find the other boys already there. They’re gathered around the table in the centre of the small square room, Subway wrappers scattered everywhere. Louis’ head felt groggy from a messed up sleeping pattern, but that wasn’t enough to keep him away from their voices downstairs, quiet giggling such a welcome sound after its absence of so long.

“Mornin’,” he croaks, flopping into the last available chair next to Niall and tucking his hands back into the pockets of his red hoodie. Lately, it had become a comfort to wear things from their time on the show and with the zip and fleece lining; this one did just the trick. He would wear the red and Harry the purple, the Jack Wills stitching making them match.

“Not exactly,” Zayn snorts, slouched across from Louis, so Louis kicks him under the table, not able to stop the tiniest of grins.

“Hey, eat this,” Niall says, licking his fingers before nudging forward the only unopened sandwich. “It’s your favourite.”

Louis shakes his head once, “Not hungry.”

He hears a small sigh and in his heart of hearts he knows he’s being just a little difficult, but he can’t seem to help himself. As the boys’ amiable chatter starts up again, he drifts in and out of the situation, still half asleep, half mind whirling with every thought imaginable until Liam’s laughing with his eyes all scrunched up about the first time he bumped into Harry wearing that gold thong he got from one of his friends from home as a joke and Louis has to say something about yesterday.

“I’m still doing it.”

He blurts it out loud enough that the conversation halts immediately and Liam’s face falls from that happy squint. There’s a couple of seconds of complete silence because the police teams left late last night and haven’t arrived yet to cause more noise and chaos to their lives and then - 

“D’you remember the time Harry threw snow at the windows? He knew it wouldn’t hit us from inside, but he just kept on going until his hands were all red and numb. He’s always been a bit weird, hasn’t he?”

Louis turns slightly to look at Niall who’d spoken and then at Zayn, taken aback at being blatantly ignored. Lastly, his eyes find Liam’s and at least he’s meeting his gaze.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he asks firmly, his hand dropping to the table with a thud. “I’m gonna get Harry back. I have a plan.” The tension builds because now he has everyone’s eyes trained on him, the centre of their attention like always and, when it seems like nobody else is going to say anything to interrupt, he opens his mouth again. “I’m gonna steal a gun.”

Liam’s head twitches, snapped out of their indulgent quiet. “What?” he splutters as Niall chokes on his mouthful of orange juice. “Are you completely fucking insane?”

Louis flinches at the surprise aggression, but quickly recovers, his jaw set and his gaze hard and defiant. “No, I’m not,” he replies through gritted teeth, façade of calm, “In fact, I’m the only one thinking with some sense and looking to do something useful,”

“So you thought you’d steal a weapon?” he hisses, “How’re you going to do that, genius,”

“Liam,” Louis says flatly, “We’re practically living with the whole of the Met Police right now,”

“He does have a point,” Zayn mumbles, staring at the wood grain of the table.

Liam throws his hands in the air, “Oh come on! You can’t seriously – not you too – Zayn? Niall?”

Niall chews his lips as he looks worriedly between Louis and Liam, clearly torn and quiet for a long moment because of it. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, the reflection of Louis’ distress in his face, and puts his hand on Liam’s shoulder. “I miss him. I miss Harry.”

“Please, Li,” Louis adds and he can see through Liam’s frown, can see that he’s won.

They’re going to steal a gun.

\--

The plan is set. With the house swarmed by police to catch any other phonecalls from the kidnappers, it is decided that three of them are to distract the detective whilst Louis waits for one of the constables to go to the loo. He’s seen one or two start to undo their belt before the door closes and he’s counting on their gun being within easy reach to sneak in and grab it. What happens beyond that is anyone’s guess but Louis’ convinced they at least have to try.

Except when he takes a step forward to climb the stairs and split from the group, Liam puts a hand to his chest.

“I’ll do it.”

Louis frowns, shaking his head, “What, no – this is my idea! I know what to do. I can do it, Liam, please let me do it,”

“You’re better at acting as a decoy than me,” Liam whispers calmly, hands now on Louis’ shoulders as Zayn and Niall hover uncertainly behind them. “I’ll get the gun. Just make sure all their attention is on you. You’re good at that. Can you do that, for me?”

Louis stares but this time it looks like Liam is not backing down. He shrugs him off. “Fine. Go.”

Even so, he can’t help his surprise when the plan goes off without a hitch. It might mean that the police officer they stole from will get in trouble and he’s still not entirely sure what to do next apart from getting out of the house to start their own search. It sounds as good a starting point as any and the gun can be their protection. _Don’t fuck with us_.

They meet in Liam and Zayn’s cramped little bedroom and Liam is already trying to pace, freaking out with the gun held in his open palms.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he keeps muttering over and over, but stops moving when Louis shuts the door behind him. His dark eyes are thoroughly shocked. “I stole a gun.”

However, now that they have it, even Louis has to admit that he’s a little nervous. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a deadly weapon and he has to swallow his anxiety when Liam quickly proffers it to him, his whole body trembling like he desperately wants to get rid. Louis breathes out when the cool metal touches his palm, bravely curling his fingers around the handle, testing the weight of it.

“The safety’s on, right?” Zayn asks in an uncertain voice.

“Uh,” Louis looks at it blankly, “I guess. I mean, he wouldn’t have had it stuffed in the waistband of his trousers if it was about to go off any minute,”

“How did you - ?” Liam half gets out.

“I thought of the plan, remember? I noticed the two guys who do a lot of standing around, guarding, probably the ones on Niall’s recording, also take breaks like clockwork. Must be a police thing, always being on time,”

Zayn bumps Louis with his shoulder, “You’d never make it then,”

Louis smiles a little, “But I’m the one holding a gun.”

Niall looks a bit green around the gills. “Yeah, about that, lads...”

They agree that there’s no time like the present (and Liam looks like he wants to get far away from everybody so they don’t know what they have with them) and Louis copies the officer, tucking the gun into the hip of his jeans so he’ll know what’s going on with it at all times. It’s quite a tight fit and feels slightly sexual for a bizarre second, especially when Zayn mumbles that it’d “make a sick tattoo” and his skin warms the smooth metal against his belt. God forbid, he gets an ill-timed erection now but at least his jeans aren’t the tight type. He’s been thinking about it, but hasn’t gone out and bought any. All the mannequins and pictures of the male models looked tall and slinky and Harry’s more tall and slinky than he’ll ever be. Skinny jeans would probably suit Harry.

“Lou!” comes a strained, urgent whisper and Louis shakes himself out of his reverie, to find the door open and everyone staring at him, raring to go.

“Yep,” he says brightly, hoping he’s not blushing from zoning out, “okay, I’m ready, bring it on,”

They tiptoe down the stairs and straight into the beeps of computers and talk on headsets. It’s a perfect cover of sound to gently pry open the front door and they can almost feel the fresh air on their faces.

“Going somewhere, boys?”

Louis refuses to think they’ve been caught, the sergeant in charge could’ve simply noticed that they were on their way out and wants to where because they haven’t said. No need to panic. He spots how everyone else’s shoulders tense in fright and then slump, admitting defeat, but it makes him personally all the more determined, so he’s the one who turns around to face the older man.

“Yeah, to the shops,”

“Right, okay,” he replies slowly, thoughtfully, his tone of voice still rather casual. Louis doesn’t know what to think. Is he right or have they actually been caught red-handed? He waits until Louis is facing the door again, his hand about to gently shove Niall out there. “I know London isn’t sunshine and rainbows sometimes, especially not to you lads now, but forgive me, I wasn’t aware that civilians had to carry a gun to go and get a pint of milk these days...”

Louis stares at the back of Niall’s blonde head for a moment, can sense him starting to shake from nerves. _He knows, he knows what we did_. 

With a sigh, Louis shuffles back into the hallway with his friends and the door shuts behind them, because apparently this conversation is far from over. They watch the man close the kitchen door too, sounds drowned to a murmur to give them some privacy.

Louis still feels defiant enough to argue. “Look, you can’t keep us here against our will. That’s what’s happening to Harry, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Zayn tugs on his elbow, muttering his name low in warning but Louis stands as firm as when he convinced Liam to be a part of this. He’s pretty good at getting people to see his way of thinking, so he keeps eyeballing the detective.

“I’m well aware of the situation, thank you, young man,” he nods, “and it’s true, you are free to go wherever you please, but you _aren’t_ free to steal police property.” He shrugs nonchalantly, putting his hands in his suit trousers’ pockets. “Unless you want to spend a night in one of our very comfy cells, get charged with theft and intent to discharge a dangerous weapon...”

Behind him, Niall gasps. “He’s not gonna use it! None of us are, it’s not like that.” He pauses and Louis can feel his blue eyes on the side of his face. “Right, Lou?”

For one delicious, but completely terrifying moment, Louis entertains the thought. Of finding the bastards who are keeping Harry from them and making them pay, but in the next breath it seems so alien. The feeling is strong, his ties to Harry are stronger than he thought possible, but the conviction to do it is not.

Louis eventually shakes his head, “No, of course not.”

He takes the gun from the waistband of his jeans and the man motions for him to hand it over. It’s in mid-air when Liam steps in front of Louis and speaks in a quiet, shaky voice, “On one condition.”

Louis’ eyes widen, but the sergeant’s narrow, calculating. “Go on,”

“You tell us everything, _everything_ , you know and if we want to help then – then you won’t stand in our way. You may treat Harry like he’s just a number, another case on top of the pile, but he’s our friend, our brother, and we won’t let him be left behind.”

“It won’t be easy – ”

“We don’t care. We just want him safe and back with us.”

Louis appreciates that he doesn’t immediately laugh in Liam’s face for trying to bargain, not sure if he would be as accepting, but from his side he’s grateful. His friends are so good.

“Okay, gentlemen, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you have yourself a deal.” Sarge puts the gun behind his back, face serious, “But one foot out of line and those cells will have _all_ your names on them. Am I clear?”

They nod in agreement and happily crash into each other, Louis squeezed tight in the middle.

It might not have worked out how Louis had (vaguely) planned, but they got something out of it in the end.

\--

As luck would have it for once, on the same day that the boys try to take action, there’s a breakthrough in the investigation. Back when the police team first set up camp in their little kitchen and they’d heard the voice of Harry’s alleged kidnapper, the ones in charge of the tech had tried their best to trace the call. They’d failed as the kidnapper had re-routed and duplicated the signal.

“But we might have a small lead,” Sarge tells the boys half an hour after their showdown in the hallway.

He opens the door to the kitchen in a mirror image of the first time and waits for them to shuffle inside, their ears pricked and their eyes peeled. Louis tries not to get his hopes up when he sees the laptops and the gadgets and the other officers, but it’s hard.

“We kept the trace going back at the Yard, but still heard nothing,” Sarge explains then gives the group a pointed look, “until you called us about the photograph. I caught you by the door because I was coming to tell you that we got a hit.”

Liam, Zayn and Niall turn their eyes on Louis.

“What?” he asks into their silence. “I didn’t know that was gonna happen, did I?!”

Liam sighs and looks at Sarge again, “What does a ‘hit’ mean exactly? Do you know where Harry is?”

“I can’t tell you that we do, no, but the trace did flag up another call. Initially, it didn’t have the same signal and was thought to be interference from nearby, but my team digged a little deeper and we think it was an incoming call. It could be from someone this alleged person is working with and very valuable to our investigation, so if we put the two points from the two different incidents together, it means that we might be able to estimate the area to start –”

“ – Looking for Harry,” Louis suddenly realises in interruption, feeling slightly faint. 

“Oh my god!” Niall exclaims.

As the three boys reach begin to babble raucously beside a still-dazed Louis, he watches Sarge’s mouth twitch at him in the ghost of a smile.

“Pack your bags, gentlemen. We’re going to Brighton.”

Brighton? They’re going _back_?

\--

It feels like it takes a million light years to drive back to Brighton, stuffed inside a police van with barely any room to move, but is probably less than a two hour journey. Even so, Louis’ surprised that Niall didn’t have any kind of claustrophobia attack, but if his jiggling leg and biting his short nails is indication, maybe he’s just too nervously excited about finding Harry to fall into that other headspace.

The _possibility_ of finding Harry, Louis has to remind himself. As far as he can tell, it seems that Sarge has kept to his promise of telling them all the important stuff to know and has tried to keep them level-headed, but this is big. If they’re successful, if Harry is there, then this will no doubt be Louis' (and everyone else’s) biggest achievement to date, Danny Zuko and X Factor be damned.

It’s why when the door to the van slides loudly open, he wastes no time clambering out and running off, not even caring where he’s going or how many voices he can hear shouting after him. However, he doesn’t get far before an officer with a stern face and dressed in full riot gear stands in his way and he skids to a halt not to bump into him. He’s part of another team, Louis sees now as he takes an actual look around, from the local police that Sarge must have called in as reinforcement. They’re parked just inside a corner on a vast industrial estate, the wind whipping up between the huge, cavernous buildings and turning the air chilly. Louis, in his t-shirt, hadn’t really thought to bring a jacket to wear and had mindlessly thrown some stuff into his Marvel rucksack to look like he’d actually planned something when really all he could think about was getting to Harry. Every corner has a collection of a big building and some smaller in varying degrees of use or decay and, as he trudges back to the others with the officer behind him, he’s struck with his first wave of pessimism since they found out about this trip. How were they ever going to find Harry out here?

A hand falls on his shoulder upon his bashful return to the group. “Come on,” Liam says with a slight smile.

Louis doesn’t know what he means until he points to the officers who are stood next to the van, the doors still open and the tech ones busy on their laptops again. They seem to be discussing the satnav system and cross-referencing it with tracing the signal. To the right, Sarge is at the head of a large cluster of officers decked out like the one that brought Louis back, but the wind is strong and carries his words only in snippets. He looks at Liam and knows that they don’t need to be briefed like that anyway, have just been told to stay close and behind the officers, at least until they’re certain the area is safe. 

Finally, they have a starting point and it’s only a few buildings away so they begin to walk quickly on foot. When a tall brick monster comes into view, Louis forgets himself again and starts to sprint towards its metal wire fence. As he gets closer with everyone else hot on his heels and his eyes frantically looking for clues, he spots swathes of yellow tape stretched across the fence and the building, as if trying to stick together and hold up its frankly crumbling, disintegrating form. As he slows in front of the fence, there’s a sickening feeling in his gut that something’s not quite right before he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. A person dressed in a high-visibility jacket, several of them actually in their bright yellow finery and white hard hats, clutching clipboards and pointing at the building. A noise sounds like a lorry reversing, an incessant beeping, and, as Louis hears the crunching footsteps of the police and the boys catch up to him, he looks up to the top of the fence to read the sign for the first time. His eyes dart around, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, because now he sees that signs are pinned _everywhere_ , so determined he was to get to Harry, to finish this.

Yellow and white, like the hi-vis uniforms, with an exclamation marked triangle and big black lettering, the sign reads:

**DANGER! DEMOLITION IN PROGRESS**

Louis stumbles backwards in shock, his breathing still erratic from running so hard so fast, as hands close around his wrists. He shakes his head slowly, trying to wriggle free even though he knows from the touch that it’s his boys, then finds his voice when someone in the hi-vis group issues a final warning through a megaphone. The building’s going to be demolished, wiped out and they don’t know, they don’t have a clue that there might be a chance, that Harry might be –

“NO!” he yells louder than he’s ever shouted in his life, blood rushing in his ears as the other boys must notice the sign and join in. “OI! STOP! YOU CAN’T!”

But they’re too late.

Voices raw from screeching and ripped away on the breeze, there’s a split second where nothing happens, time suspended, and then an almighty groan of what sounds like shaky thunder before a cloud of dust that puffs and billows out, growing and growing as, one by one, the floors of the dilapidated, taped building collapse in on itself and crash to the concrete ground below. 

Louis can’t see anything; his eyes are open wide, blue and unseeing, but blurry with tears yet to be shed on his wet face and his bare arms prickling with nausea-induced goosebumps. Niall’s hitched gasp in his ear and Liam and Zayn’s painful grip on his wrist and chest are distant to the sudden numbness in Louis’ brain, but it seems to do the trick of unfreezing him from the spot.

He wrenches out of their hold and makes a lunge for the high fence properly this time, its chain links rattling as he curls his cold fingers into the gasps and ferociously shakes it with all his might, shouting for Harry even as the building settles into heaps of rubble. He feels his boys all around him, caging him in, in case he tries anything stupid he guesses, like climbing the fence to see if it’s really true, if that building’s really just vanished before their very eyes, if Harry was actually in there and now – now he’s – 

“I never – ” he croaks on a sob, “I never got the chance...”

He squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head at the same time as Liam squeezes his shoulder. He can’t tell whether it’s just his fingers trembling as they cover his mouth or if he can feel the vibrations of all their shivers through his body, their shared heartbreak carving itself into his bones.

Time doesn’t matter to Louis anymore because they failed, they all failed, _he_ failed and Harry’s gone.

_Harry’s gone_.

“Er, Sarge?” a careful voice eventually comes from behind them, where the police are no doubt packing up to move on, another day, another case. “I don’t think this is it...?”

Zayn lifts his head sharply at the frantic murmuring beginning between the younger officer and Sarge and then Niall’s wobbly demand of “What?” and Louis hears it all, but he can’t make himself look up from his shoes, the threat to be sick still so possible if he so much as moves an inch.

It takes Sarge telling Liam and Niall twice to get them to understand even half of what he’s saying, before it travels to Zayn, who’s got his arms wrapped around Louis’ middle from behind.

“The satnav of the police van we were following already had this address in it from a previous minor call. This is the wrong place; it isn’t the site we’re supposed to be at. Get back in the van.”

Although he heard Sarge speak too, Louis snarls when Niall tries to coax him away from the fence, a sound he’s never made before or at least not to one of the band, and it takes Zayn’s snap of “Hey!” and a firm tug to bodily pull him back towards the van, his heels dragging across the gravel. He wants to scream at them to let him go, that they’ve got no right, he isn’t ready to leave yet, but has to watch through exhausted eyes where the pile of bricks and mortar get further and further away. He’s bewildered out of his mind, not sure what’s actually about to happen (there can’t be more surely?) until Zayn snuggles him into his side once they’re seated again and lifts his chin to lock eyes.

“Lou? Louis, are you gonna listen? Are you listening to me?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together deeply and his eyes shiny.

“Alright, I’m listening,” he grumbles.

“Harry’s not in there,” Louis feels his face start to crumple at those gently-voiced, devastating words before Zayn inhales quickly, “No, I mean, there’s still hope! We’re at the wrong address,”

Louis’ stomach drops. “W-what?”

“Bro, they fucked up. Harry’s still out there.”

With a screech of wheels, the van speeds off for a second time with sirens blazing and lights flashing. 

However, they did fail something. What anyone failed to notice was the black SUV with the blacked-out windows parked at the opposite end of the street.

\--

By the time they reach Bellbrook, Uckfield (20 miles from the centre of Brighton, according to the corrected satnav), the windscreen wipers are working hard as the heavens opened in the last ten minutes of their journey. The street corner and its buildings look just the same as the other plot, but everyone gets out anyway because they’re full of renewed purpose.

This time, this could be it.

The rhythmic sounds of the police team’s boots follow the boys and Sarge to pinpoint the exact building their tech traced the signal to. It looks terrifyingly the same as the one marked for demolition, except it’s roof has been partially torn off already, exposing it’s wooden beams. Altogether, it looks more stable than the first location, like somewhere you could potentially keep someone prisoner for days or even weeks on end. As they carefully enter, it’s hard not to feel shocked at the obvious. On the ground floor...well, there practically is no ground floor with how sunken the concrete is, an enormous crater of a hole making it incredibly treacherous to walk through.

Louis stands to the side of the destroyed space and next to the others as they all look up at the second floor. Half of it no longer exists either, except for a long, sturdy pillar still standing strong at the edge of the drop. Intermittent sparks of light are coming from a huge covering of severed wires and the rain is showing no mercy.

“Okay, be very careful where you step.” Sarge tells them, “Follow me or if for some reason you can’t, stay close to any of the officers in here. There’s plenty of them.”

They trudge up a concrete staircase that smells of the rain and piss and make it to the second floor without incident, but something is nagging at Louis’ brain, his stomach turning at the sight of a long smear of dark, dried blood in the doorway. This place is like a carcass, a shell with no beating heart, nobody to be found alive and well.

He tugs on Zayn’s sleeve as they walk properly into the room. “Harry’s not here, is he?” he whispers forlornly. The building’s only got two floors and, it seems, very little hiding space.

Zayn whips around to stare at Louis, but forgets about the unlit cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. The movement makes it fall and slap onto the wet ground, their soaked-through clothes dripping puddles by their feet as they look down. He had just opened his mouth to say something. “Lou, look!” he exclaims instead.

Louis follows to where the cigarette landed before they both rush over to the spot, an officer close by. The floor is sodden, except for a patch by the big end pillar that looks slightly lighter. Louis presses his hand to it and it’s only barely damp, as if something’s been covering it. 

Or someone’s been sat in its place. 

They gingerly step forward as the officer uses his radio to call for Sarge, intending to wave Liam and Niall up there when there’s more. Directly behind the pillar and right before the drop is a jagged edge of crumbling concrete. It’s caked in hard mud and bearing a series of seemingly random scratches, although when Louis slowly crouches down, the lines become a little clearer.

It’s a drawing, he realises, tilting his head in an impression of looking at some surrealist art at a gallery. What forms in front of his eyes is a rectangle, with three horizontal lines and a squiggle in the middle, as if it was drawn in haste or without being able to see to get any sort of detail. Above the box are three, wobbly capital letters:

**ESP**

Louis frowns and Zayn looks just as puzzled from above him.

ESP? What the hell does that mean? 

And still the biggest question of all: where the fuck is Harry?

\----

Harry is staring hazily at the sparking snake of wires in the corner of the room when he hears Luka’s crisp footsteps come through the shell of the doorway. He turns his head against the pillar as Luka squats by the side of him.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” he says, reaching out, “Come on, get up.”

Too confused to try to make another break for it and knowing all too well what happens the second he steps out of line, Harry makes no effort to be anything but rigid and dumbfounded, despite two of Luka’s men untying his bound wrists and suddenly hauling him to his feet. He can’t help but wonder if this is another test, more taunting to break him down further, and his wariness must show on his face because Luka actually chuckles.

“Don’t look so worried! You’re going to go on a little adventure. Paperwork, please.” He clicks his fingers and one of the henchmen thrusts a wad of papers at Luka, Harry watching him flick through them quickly until he pulls out a small book tucked into the middle. He instantly knows from its burgundy cover that it’s a passport and the open page is shoved in front of his face. “Meet Matthew Robinson.”

Luka is squeezing his injured shoulder, a shot of intense pain making him hiss through clenched teeth as his body awakens from its long stretch of numbness and immobility. When he’s able to breathe and his eyes can focus again, Harry sees that the picture is of him, but his details aren’t the same. 

“Call it precautionary measures,” Luka drawls after Harry’s lack of response. He knows it’s a forged passport and that must mean that the situation is changing, but he hasn’t the energy to protest. Everything hurts. Luka nods to the men holding him up. “Okay, take him downstairs.”

His feet scrabble for purchase as they practically drag him outside and he flinches in surprise at the beginning of light rain falling on his face. It’s like a moment of relief, to feel something so pure and refreshing against his skin after only fists and blood for days but, all too soon, he’s pushed headfirst into a waiting van. He crashes awkwardly into a row of seats that line each side of the vehicle, knocking into someone’s bare leg. He knows before he looks up into her emotionless face that the leg belongs to Freya. His hands are still tied behind his back, even if he isn’t attached to anything, and so his scuttle backwards is less than graceful. Harry can hear the rain beating down onto the roof as it gets more persistent and the grey light of the outside world beyond the door looks alien, almost hurting his eyes with its unfiltered brightness as the two henchmen climb into the back to join him and Freya and Luka stands at the passenger door. He isn’t particularly shy about keeping his voice down and Harry is reminded of the incident between him and one of his other henchmen, someone he hasn’t seen much of since, of the one-side shouting match that had first scared Harry half to death. Maybe that’s why he’d lost it for a moment, a slip of control to always keep everyone around him on tenterhooks and paralysed by fear. He hears another laugh from where Luka is hunched towards the man in the driver’s seat then less than a minute later, Luka gets in and they begin to move, carelessly speedy around the corners and over bumpy ground. Through the two, large square windows in the doors, the crooked building Harry’d spent close to a week holed up inside vanishes into the distance.

Not even ten minutes have gone by when the van slows to a stop. From his position on the floor, Harry cranes his neck to see through the doors, but it all looks the same as the place they just left. _They can’t be moving him here_ , he thinks, before the faint sound of another vehicle approaching snatches his attention. His head whips round to Luka and Freya, but frankly everybody seems wholly unconcerned and Harry feels that unsettled swoop in his stomach again. Parked only a few yards away, Harry follows their gazes out the window, staring with barely-concealed dread as two black vans, not unlike the one he’s in, pull up near to a crumbling building cocooned in bright yellow tape and ringed by a metal criss-cross chain fence. On one side is a group of people in yellow jackets and hard hats, holding clipboards, on the other is a troop decked out in riot gear. 

It’s the police.

Harry tries to stay very still, his heart secretly doing the lurching for him, wanting nothing more than to throw open the back doors and make a run for it towards safety. He knows Luka likes to dangle things just out of his reach and he figures this is one of those times until he spots a third gang who don’t look like police. They aren’t wearing helmets or brandishing riot shields, but they are running ahead of the police with reckless abandon, stopping just short of colliding with the fence in their collective urgency. Everything is quiet for a moment and Harry holds his breath, it punching out of him in a terrified gasp when he hears a very familiar loud yell. There is milliseconds to process that it’s _Louis_ and the boys are with him, with the _police_ , before the building in front of them unexpectedly crashes down to rubble. The roar it makes is fit for its formerly huge size, the noise ringing in Harry’s ears, as he kicks his legs out hard towards the back doors and starts to scream. The mucky piece of material Luka had been using to gag him hangs around his neck from where they hadn’t bothered to put it over his mouth again, mistakenly thinking it wouldn’t be needed, so the two henchmen have to make a dive for his thrashing form, yanking him away until his head hits a hard chest and fingers come around to clutch at his face. It’s instantly difficult to breathe as Luka covers his nose and mouth with a harsh grip, his howling soon reduced to whimpers.

“You’re dead to them, Harry,” Luka whispers harshly in his ear, his other hand painful in his hair so he can’t look away from the scene just outside, “They’ve failed you and they’re never going to find you now, do you understand?” Harry shuts his eyes tight, pooled tears cascading down his bruised cheeks and onto Luka’s hand until he feels incredibly light-headed. It’s only when he hears the clatter of plastic and feels his eyes grow too heavy too quickly that he does understand something.

He’s been drugged again.

\--

When Harry comes to, he has a blinding headache and the rest of his body is weighed down by grief. It takes only a second for the last thing he remembers to come flooding in, the image of Louis lunging for the fence permanently burned into the backs of his eyelids. It doesn’t matter where they are anymore, if he’s moved an inch or he’s in another country, his friends and family have never felt so far out of reach. He groans to test his scratchy voice, eyes fluttering open to be faced with darkness.

“I bet you’re wondering where we are,” Luka says from somewhere slightly above Harry. He sluggishly raises his head with intent to glare, finding him sat relaxed on the seat opposite Harry and next to Freya, a soft glow emanating from her phone and the one source of light around them. Luka checks his watch. “Do you speak French? It might be handy soon. Or it might not. Tell me, where do you want to go?”

“Home.” he growls.

Luka tuts, unfazed, “Forgotten already, I see. You can’t go home because you don’t have a home anymore, not there anyway. You’re with me now and you are Matthew Robinson. Learn it, remember it, don’t you ever fucking forget it. Harry Styles is dead and you’re mine to keep.”

Harry stays quiet as Luka sets Freya to work, kneeling beside him to help him into a fresh change of clothes and clean up any scrapes and bruises that have risen since the last time he was attended to. He can’t bear to look at her, keeping his eyes downcast to the metal floor, and hating how he does feel slightly better once she’s finished. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt, dark green hoodie and comfortable low slung jeans. For the first time in nearly a week, there’s dry socks on his feet and trainers, so he assumes that all this must mean that he’s about to be in a public place and he has no choice but to act normal. Except that’s going to be a little difficult with a dodgy shoulder.

As soon as he’s thought it, the henchmen seem to crowd menacingly closer and Harry knows what’s coming when Luka takes his hand. “Oh yes, it slipped my mind about your predicament whilst you were sleeping, so this will hurt.” 

From one breath and the next, Luka wrenches his shoulder hard and fast into place and Harry bites down on the gag between his lips, swallowing his shout. “There’s a good boy,” he praises, ruffling Harry’s matted curls as Freya fashions a sling. Eventually, he’s deemed ready and is lead out of the sliding side door. Harry wants to bolt from Frey’s hold on his hand, but she squeezes his fingers in warning under the watchful eye of Luka sat in the van and one henchman a few paces behind them. Now Harry can see several lines of cars and vans queued up behind each other, freely mumbling a swearword as he realises they’re on a ferry.

Freya pulls him through the exit of the holding area, past the people sitting down, all chatting and some eating, and straight onto the deck. The rush of wind buffing his face, the noise of the sea and the ferry’s engine hits him like a slap. They really are on the water, heading to a different country where Harry doesn’t know anyone. He’s truly lost.

Almost four hours later and being bundled back into the van ready to depart, Harry still doesn’t feel like he’s found his sea legs. The need to be sick had increased with every mile that stretched between home and wherever the hell he was going, no matter how gentle the sway of the waves. He and Freya had barely talked whilst sat next to each other in surprisingly comfy chairs, her clicking away on her phone, most likely keeping Luka updated, and him with his hood up to hide his face and a strict order to be shut up with a book of Sudoku Freya had reluctantly bought him in the souvenir shop with a long-suffering sigh. He tried to at least smile politely in thanks, but his slowly healing busted lip had hurt and Freya stared right through him before the clicking of her fingernails resumed. Harry suppressed a shiver as a flashback came of those fingernails leaving marks across his back the night they’d slept together. Well, the night she knowingly seduced him more like. The flare of anger mixed with hot humiliation that he hadn’t entirely repressed such an arousing image out of context was enough to make him blush and keep on blushing when Luka had plucked the book from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. The non-violent physical contact makes him jump and turn, lowering himself slowly onto the seat again as Luka leafs through the haphazardly filled in pages.

“Well aren't I lucky,” he nods, impressed, as he stands up to hunch over him. He strokes Harry’s cheek with the rolled up book in his fist, pushing it under his chin to raise his face. “ _Brains_ as well as beauty. Keep up the good behaviour and you may get some privileges when we get back.”

Harry looks away from his glinting eyes, trying to work out what getting back means, and frowns hard at his feet as Luka pulls Freya up and bends to kiss her fully with a murmured “I’m proud of you, baby,” hot on his lips. Going out in public for the first time since he’s been under their control had felt like a test and Harry guesses it must’ve also been one for her. Instead of secret smuggling, even with paperwork it’s as bold as can be. Luka may feel lucky right now, but Freya is too – lucky to be chosen to be something more than the mysterious others Harry has seen, lucky to be praised by the man in charge, although he can’t help noticing the yellowing bruise high on the back of her thigh as Luka lewdly gropes at her arse from underneath her short skirt. 

They leave Harry sat in the back with the meatheads and sit by the driver instead, Freya snug on Luka’s lap. Harry stares at them and their public displays of affection, darkly wishing for an accident as they start to disembark the ferry. It’d serve them right for not wearing seatbelts and then maybe he can escape once and for all. He sighs in the next breath, his shoulder aching in his sling, annoyed with himself for still entertaining such fantasies. At least it’s a step up from hypothetical murder. 

Harry looks out the window when they begin to snog again, smothering his sound of disgust as Luka’s hand disappears between Freya’s legs. The sky is a light, cautious blue covered by large swathes of cloud reminiscent of home and it’s only when they drive past a green sign declaring that they’re on their way out of the port of Dieppe does Harry believe that they’ve actually made it to the shores of France. He has half a mind to sleep because he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be in the van for and there’s nothing else to do since Luka still has his Sudoku book, so he lies across the vacant row of seats and falls asleep to the sounds of the evening’s rush hour.

He awakens groggily from an insistent poke to his wrapped shoulder and instantly notes how the van has stopped and that everything is much quieter until an almighty rumble passes overhead. Before he can ask questions, Harry is pulled from the van onto solid ground. It’s breezy like it was on the deck of the ferry, but slightly warmer, even if it’s now quickly approaching dusk and dark lined tarmac is underneath his feet. It’s hard to miss the small aeroplane sat on the runway they’re standing on and everyone leaves the driver and the van to move as a group towards it. Despite the hum of other aircrafts taking off nearby, the small hangar and surrounding area of grassland is seemingly deserted at this time of the day, ideal for a person to display what funds from criminal activity has enabled them to buy. Harry had heard rumours whilst he was in his company that Simon Cowell had access to a private plane, but he’d never been in one until now. It was as he expected and more, with temptingly luxurious furniture and elegant decor, but Luka and Freya didn’t seem to care as they stumbled ahead attached at the hip. Harry isn’t sure if they’re trying to rub it in his face how much a fool they think he is or if they’re just high on getting away with a life of crime together, but it’s not until Luka is about to shut the door on the main seating area of the plane that he pauses and comes over to where Harry is awkwardly standing between his two silent cronies. Luka pushes him into the nearest chair, its softness immediately moulding to Harry’s body like a much needed cuddle.

“Don’t move,” he says, squeezing his shoulder once more like a reminder, “Eat, sleep, relax, but don’t try anything stupid because you’ve seen what happens when you do and there’s not a person here who won’t hesitate to snap your neck faster than you can scream for help, without me even being in the room. They know what to do and now so do you.” Luka turns to leave then pulls something out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket, tossing it onto the fancy china plate sat in front of Harry, “To keep you entertained on the rest of your journey as you’ve been such a good boy.”

His grin is wolfish, taking a phone out of his pocket, as he walks back to where Freya is waiting and giggling, both of them disappearing from view and it’s barely seconds before the telltale moaning and groaning starts. The plane accelerates powerfully until they’re lifted into the air and Harry stares at his creased, half-finished Sudoku book before he shakes his head clear. The henchmen have had to sit for the flight of course and Harry coughs to get their attention from the other bank of seats and tables across from him.

“Um, excuse me, but can you tell me where we’re going?” he asks timidly, talking to the aisle carpet, “I mean, I thought we might – we’ve been travelling a lot, that’s all.”

“Spain.”

Harry blinks, shocked he got a straight answer for once. “What?”

“Spain, kid. The boss takes this plane to Spain every two weeks.” he replies gruffly, irritated at having to repeat himself and not understanding the significance of the moment.

For a second, Harry is sidetracked imagining that Louis would make some quip about the ‘rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane’ rhyme before it sinks in that he was right. The clues that Luka had been feeding him back in Brighton for some sick sense of fun had added up to this. The sunny weather, a country across the sea, the animal (a lion) on its flag – Harry had figured it out and felt a little zip of hope before it was instantly doused. Even if his family and friends and the police understood this too, he’d been forced to witness the horror on their faces, Louis clinging to the fence and the boys clinging onto him, as Luka had laughed in his ear at their misery then drugged him into sleep.

They could give up on him now, conscience clean, and Harry couldn’t really blame them.

After all, he’s dead.

\----

To be fair to Sarge and the two teams of police, they don’t rush checking every crevice of the scarily creaky shell of the building, so it’s almost properly into evening when Louis’ phone sounds and vibrates in his coat pocket to signal a text message. The rain had stopped falling an hour ago, leaving everything in sight a soggy mess, including the shivering boys, but Louis didn’t care if everything was wet as he stood by the foot of the concrete stairs, as long as it was solid, because he flops down hard on his bum upon seeing the name **CURLY** flash onto the screen. His mouth is half open to call for someone at the same time that his shaking fingers slide over his phone, the words _catch me if you can_ staring up at him.

“Zayn? Hey, Sarge? Lads?” he calls slowly, tone tilting upwards in distraction as he can’t quite process the words he’s seeing. He knows Harry’s not the one who sent these words, it can’t be, but why would the kidnapper be using Harry’s phone to text Louis? As just a cruel joke? Or something more? Could such grief-stricken misery be another one of his psychopathic games?

To get the answers, Louis knows he has to take the evidence to the police. He makes sure to look in every part of the building, ending up outside where Sarge is conversing with a man dressed in a plastic suit and blue coverings on his shoes. Forensics.

“Hey, kid,” Sarge says as he meets him halfway, clearly noticing the determination on Louis’ face.

He looks up to scowl though because he’s not a kid and lately he hasn’t much felt like play-acting as one either before he sees the amused slant to Sarge’s mouth and wordlessly thrusts out his phone instead, disappointed that he’s about to wipe that smirk off the man’s face. Sarge reads the text silently, the cogs in his head undoubtedly already turning, and Louis raises his eyebrows when he declares that almost everyone is to get back in the vans. Logically, Louis knows that they want to form a new plan, to maybe go after the kidnapper in some way, as he seems to be goading them to, but he also understands what that means for the building. He goes slack in the police’s grip as they try to usher them all towards the vans, breaking away once he’s lulled them into a false sense of compliance to tear up the staircase. He can’t leave because the thought of evidence being forgotten, mixed up or just plain ignored is a chance he’s not willing to take, especially with the misshapen, intriguing scratches perhaps being the biggest lead of them all. And a lead it is because despite what he saw, regardless of the sickening thought that Harry was in that other building, there must’ve been a point where Harry was _here_ instead. If there’s hope that the scratches could be him then there’s hope that he was moved. There’s hope that he’s still alive and Louis’ not seen him with his own two eyes in so long.  
Until he does, he’s not giving up.

“Lou, let’s go!” Zayn wheezes, out of breath from chasing after him.

“I can’t! Not yet!” he shouts, falling to his knees besides the scratched mud.

He wants to take the piece with him to safeguard it so much that he starts pulling at the edges with his fingers until they hurt and to no avail. Zayn grabs his hand, but he clings on with the other, trying to shrug him off. Louis hears him muttering quickly to himself then a phone’s camera is being shoved between him and the ground, taking its picture.  
“There!” he exclaims, tugging at Louis’ arm again. “Now come on, they’re waiting for us, you idiot!”

The urgency of the situation finally outweighs the desire for the existing evidence, Louis silently relenting that a photograph of the scratches will just have to do. They run down the stairs and out of the building to where Sarge and his team, Niall and Liam are already raring to go.

It’s as they’re buckled up heading to the nearest airport that Louis feels another buzz in his pocket and shields his phone from prying eyes to have a sneaky first look, the words infuriatingly cryptic:

_A dog’s bark is worse than its bite. But a lion’s roar reaches further beyond._

\----

Unlike the previous hours of travelling, it takes next to no time for the plane to smoothly descend at the end of its journey. Glad of the distraction from the delicious food he hadn’t felt like eating much, Harry halts pushing a pea around his plate and gently lies his fork down, turning to stare out the window instead as more quiet grassland comes rapidly into view. Through the sunset, the weather looks hotter than the UK and France put together, limes and oranges and pinks washed across the landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, Freya moves to sit beside Luka in her own seat instead of his lap, where she spent most of the flight, and they all feel the slight jolt as the plane hits the tarmac and soon slows to a graceful stop. It’s probably the best time of Harry’s life, riding in a private plane to a lovely country, the realisation at odds with his treatment so far. They last time he felt this good, he was in Spain as well.

One of the henchmen leads Harry off the plane by the elbow, the lingering heat in the air immediately settling into Harry’s skin and making him slightly raise his face to the sky. An impatient shove forward has him opening eyes he doesn’t remember closing and briefly tripping over his feet, lost in happy memories that ground him through the reality that he’s stuck in rural Spanish countryside. He chances a glance over his shoulder at the swish of the plane’s propeller as its pilot flies it up and away from the patch of sloppily laid concrete, metres from a square fortress of pale limestone wall.

Luka comes to collect Harry from his men, his hand firm on his shoulder like always, and gestures expansively, “Welcome home.”

Harry’s mouth goes slack, despite himself. Opening a large, arched wooden door reveals a garden lush with flowers and foliage, a stone path and a set of steps cutting through the nature, winding and pulling Harry’s gaze with it to a two-tier villa - sandy-yellow walls, weathered dark red shutters across the smaller windows, French doors and a balcony attached to the upstairs. He can clearly imagine how smug Luka is.

“And that’s not all of it,” he adds in Harry’s ear, putting a hand to the small of his back to force him forward again. Harry feels it like a brand, even through the thick layer of hoodie and t-shirt, burning like it does when Luka ruffles his hair.

When he sees the huge swimming pool spread out at the rear of the property, Harry is helplessly transported back to Spain at a better time, a time spent with newly-formed friendships at the beginning of a different kind of emotional rollercoaster...

 

Harry wakes to the sun on his face.

More accurately, it’s shining directly at his right eye and feels kind of blinding this early in the morning. Oh god, it’s _the_ morning and the day of reckoning for One Direction as a legitimate singing group. The more Harry thinks of the name he created for them, the more proud of it he becomes. He did that and the other boys agreed and they are going to get through to the live shows, damn it. His nervously excited optimism (and the need to get the sun off his face) pulls him upright as he hears a weak groan from the spacious bed next to him. Every room in the villa is so big they’ve all slept like kings since they got here.

“Don’t wanna be angry at the sun, but fuckin' hell, s’too early for this shit,” Louis mumbles, moving jerkily to tug his pillow over his head and Harry stifles his sleepy giggle rather unsuccessfully. He decides it’s probably best for the both of them to sort out the situation before Louis starts complaining for real and slowly drags himself from the comfy bed to the large windows that open onto a stone wall balcony. He draws and fluffs the sheer curtains until the sunlight filters through softly then turns to go back to bed. Just five minutes more won’t hurt.

However, as he’s passing Louis, he smiles and can’t resist the pull. Harry carefully slides in next to his friend and makes a grab for the pillow still pressed flat against Louis’ head.

“Hey, it’s safe,” he grins after the other boy’s very indignant, if muffled, “oi!”, “I promise you it is, Lou,” He continues to smile as Louis cautiously comes out from his hiding place - first his bedhead hair, then his sleepy eyes before he finally breathes out a satisfied sigh and flops onto his back once he’s deemed that Harry’s fixed it. “Better?”

“Mmm, much,” he hums, eyes closed and his fingers absently scratching at his bare chest, “Thanks, babe.”

Harry feels the moment they both instinctively tense, but he’s not sure why. It’s a sweet term of endearment and he already knows that Louis’ an affectionate, tactile kind of boy, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, it’s just. He’s never showed it through his words. Harry’s too caught up in his own mind to say anything, but Louis beats him to it anyway, like always.

“I...call everyone that,” he explains hesitantly, keeping his eyes shut and his face tilted to the ceiling. Harry can’t help noticing how his hands tug the sheets up to hide his body, suddenly guarded. “I know I haven’t with you - with you and the boys, I mean – it just slipped out. It doesn’t mean anything,”

“No, I know,” Harry rushes to say, shifting subtly closer to his friend, where he’s laid out on his side. He’s wearing underwear and it feels a bit wrong, only because he’s so used to sleeping in the nude. He thought it might be a bit inappropriate for now, what with sharing a villa with so many other people. “It’s alright, love,” he adds softly.

Louis aimlessly hits the back of his hand against Harry’s forearm and laughs, “Don’t mock me, you cheeky little shit!”

Harry isn’t, but he laughs along and figures he can snuggle in some more now that the atmosphere has shifted back to familiar teasing. He rests his head tentatively on Louis’ shoulder until he moves to wrap his arm around Harry’s, nudging Harry’s head onto his chest with the movement. The distraction has worn off in their contentment and it’s got Harry thinking about the day ahead. He feels quite sick every time he does and either Louis feels the same or he can just read Harry’s mind because, above him, he suddenly blurts out, “Do you think we can do it? Get through to the live shows?”

Harry draws a breath and lifts his head to answer. In the softened morning light, Louis’ eyes are the palest sea blue. “Absolutely.” he nods, sitting up, “We’re gonna smash it.”

Louis sighs behind him and rolls to get out of bed, deeming their cuddle done. “I really hope so too.”

\--

In the blink of an eye (or several hours), it’s late afternoon and Harry is hanging out by the fountain with his mates. Except they’re about to sing a song in front of a multimillionaire music mogul for a show that could potentially change their lives for the foreseeable future. Harry wants it so bad he’s feeling sick again or it’s the motion of the feet pacing a hole into the concrete in front of him.

“Louis, will you sit down?” he asks meekly, stomach churning as he speaks, “Remember your foot,”

“I dosed myself up on more painkillers before we come out here, so I don’t need to remember anything,” he shrugs back, pausing to look at Harry, then resuming his walk, flip-flops thwacking the ground.

“Remember the bloody lyrics then,” Liam mutters sullenly from beside Harry, four of them perched on the sturdy stone lip of the fountain.

“Piece of piss,” Louis snorts.

He does finally stop short when a runner comes to get them for their pre-performance chat on the grass with Dermot, preventing him and Liam further riling each other up. Harry hopes that’s not going become a proper issue. Simon needs to see that they want this as a unit and that nothing like petty squabbles can get in the way of that.  
So, they sing and it’s a blur of an experience. Harry can’t even remember if they sounded any good. All that keeps coming back to him is Simon’s strange eagerness to know about Louis’ injured foot and the boy nervously preening under the attention.

Then the waiting begins.

It’s Hell on Earth because what Harry had said to Louis that morning as they laid in bed had been the truth. He may have come into the competition by himself, but so had the others and now they had a shared common goal and there’s nothing more powerful than mutual passion.

He’s so overcome with relief and many other feelings after being left to stew for longer than the montage the show will put out that when they hear Simon's decision Harry can’t help bursting into tears and launching himself at his new boss. He gets the feeling that Simon’s the opposite of his Louis, not that tactile at all, but supposes it comes from this being his job and technically he’s in work. This is going to be his work too, he realises as he whirls away from the hug with his arm raised to cover his blotchy face. 

They fucking did it. They’re through to the live shows.

He turns into the group huddle the boys form around him, holding tighter with his free hand to the back of Louis’ polo shirt and peeking up to see the way his moment of seriousness has crumpled into tears of his own. 

What’s more, Harry did it with the four boys he’s clinging to. Something fierce tells him that they’re going to become the greatest of friends.

\--

The sun is steadily setting by the time Harry and Louis are alone again. Liam, Niall and Zayn had been around earlier, all eventually dropping back to amble into the villa for some much needed sleep because their days in Spain are numbered, but Harry can’t calm down. It’s unusual as he thinks of himself as a pretty laid back boy, but he’s glad he’s got a livewire for a friend. Now would be the time to do some pacing but, instead, Louis is sharing the same sun lounger facing the ocean as Harry, crammed together so that the whole length of their bodies are touching except for where Louis’ leg jiggles restlessly.

“Can’t believe it,” he breathes quietly for what feels like the tenth time in a row, gaze unblinkingly fixed on the horizon, “Like, fuck me, this is huge,”

“So you keep saying,” Harry replies dryly, finally reaching out to touch Louis’ knee. “You’re not helping me calm down y’know,”

Louis whips his eyes to him, a flicker of navy-blue through the pink dusk washed across his face, cheekbones standing out in sharp contrast to the haziness of the evening. His incredulous expression makes him look a little silly. “Did I say I would?”

“Well, no,” Harry giggles, regardless. 

Louis’ smile turns slightly soft, almost fond. “That wasn’t even funny, Hazza.”

With a happy sigh, he leans his head back against the high slope of the sun lounger, fixing his fringe when it falls too far into his eyes. Harry already knows that it’s something of a habit for him, increasing when he’s nervous or self-conscious in any way, but his leg has stopped jiggling and looking at him seems to be calming Harry down from the day’s excitement. It's a bit weird, but not enough to prevent Harry from almost bursting with emotion again, babbling a “thanks, babe,” before he can think of what else to say. It’s satisfying to see Louis’ sparkling smile.

“You’re welcome, love.”

Harry’s fairly sure he’s humouring him if the mischief in his eyes is anything to go by, but it doesn’t matter. He’s so pretty is the thing with his smile and his cheekbones and his abs and it’s not odd for Harry to notice because it's like a fact, especially against the still-warm backdrop of Marbella evening, the tiniest of breezes arriving from the darkened beach below.

“We should probably...” he mumbles, gaze taking all of Louis in before inexplicably pausing at his mouth, magnetised.

“Yeah,” Louis says inaudibly, lips shaping the word, watching Harry’s intent stare. “We should. Going home tomorrow. I’ll just – _shit_!” Harry’s yanked from the heart-flippingly, near perfect moment by Louis jumping up from the sun lounger like a right loon, eyes widened frantically as he delves into the pocket of his long shorts. “I forgot to call Hannah! Fuck!”

“Huh?”

Louis rolls his eyes at his confusion, smiling. “I need to tell her our news, silly billy. We got through!”

“Yay,” Harry chirps slowly, shaking his head to clear the madness. 

Suddenly, he’s exhausted, nearly too tired to move, as Louis starts to walk in the direction of the sandy stone steps to take his understandable private conversation with his girlfriend elsewhere, the air carrying his light voice greeting “hey babe, it’s me,” into the phone pressed to his ear, leaving Harry to contemplate if they had really almost been about to _kiss_. It took seconds of him wondering coupled with the sound of Louis’ distant joyful laughter to decide that it didn’t matter. He has bigger fish to fry now.

They all do.

They're through and it's hopefully the beginning of the best time of their lives.

They might even _win_.

Well, it couldn’t hurt to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading thus far, lovelies. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! x
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [theprincessed](http://www.theprincessed.tumblr.com). Come chat to me. :)


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